


Wassail, Wassail

by DarthNickels



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Comedy of Errors, Edwardians Behaving Badly, Established Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Picnics, Secret Relationship, Thomas is an asshole who believes in love with the steadfast faith of a disney princess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6499060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mid-December, 1920: Robert discovers one of Sybil's former patients is living in York, and invites him to spend Christmas at Downton. Things go as well as one might expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wassail, Wassail

                The train steamed proudly along the track, the steady chugging of its wheels and engine filling the silence of the first class car. The charming Yorkshire scenery flying past their window was wasted on the two occupants.

“You’re fidgeting,” Edward murmured.

                “Am not,” Thomas muttered, sullenly.

                “You are so—I can feel you,” Edward replied, light and teasing. “And now I can hear you scowling.”

                Thomas looked away—he was, in fact, scowling fiercely—but it made little difference to Edward.

                “Is it so awful?” Edward asked, his smile dimming slightly. “If you really think you’ll be _that_ unhappy, we can turn around.”

                Thomas looked back at Edward, relenting somewhat. “You mean it?”

                “I do. We can get off and buy a ticket right back to York.”

                Thomas considered it for a moment. He really did. Only a few years ago he would have jumped on Edward’s wavering, taken full advantage of his gracious willingness to retreat.

                “No,” he sighed, wondering when exactly he’d gotten soft. “No, we’ve come this far. We might as well see this idiocy done.”

                “Good,” Edward’s face was sunny again, and Thomas felt his mouth twitch in a small, involuntary smile. “You’ll enjoy this more than you think. If I’m wrong, we can make our excuses and bow out early.”

                “Then I hope you’re ready to be wrong.”

                Edward rolled his eyes, and the effect was no less effective for their milky scars. “Defeatism doesn’t suit you.” He sobered slightly, trying to choose his words carefully. “Do say you’ll _try_ to enjoy yourself. Promise me you’ll make an effort, at least.”

                Thomas snorted. “Downton doesn’t agree with me. It never did.”

“Ah, what did I just say about defeatism?” Edward grinned, wryly. He reached out and found Thomas’ hand with a minimum amount of searching, giving it a light squeeze. “Try for me. If you really can’t bear it, I won’t make you stay-- I wouldn’t want you to ruin the Crawley’s Christmas by being in a _pet_ the whole time.”

Thomas huffed indignantly, and Edward laughed at him. They were both drowned out by the hiss of steam and the shrieking of the wheels as the train groaned to a halt at Downton Station.

* * *

 

                Only a few days earlier they’d been having a celebratory luncheon at The Swan and Sun—at Thomas’ insistence. Edward had finished his exams with flying colors, and had a rousing evening of drinks with his classmates the evening prior. Now, it was Thomas’ turn to treat his scholar.

                _Thomas you mustn’t! You don’t have to pay for—_

_I’m not paying for anything, sir. Armand in the kitchen owes me a favor or three._

_Why_ exactly _does he owe you the cost of a very glamorous brunch?_

 _I have my secrets, sir._ _See, here’s our man now—ah, look, lovely crepes…_

                It was very daring, being out like this—maybe even stupid. Thomas was both, to be sure, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. He was _happy_. He’d never dreamed he’d be this happy, that things could happen this way for him, and by God the man who made it all possible was getting a champagne brunch to celebrate his exams if Thomas had to cheat at cards day and night to make it happen.

                That was what he’d joined the army for, after all—so he could be a man who gave things—who had things to _give,_ and people to give them to. For all appearances he was still a servant, it was true, but now it was on _his_ terms. No one had to know—

                --and that was the best part.

                The meal had been lovely—Edward’s face lit up at the sound of the champagne cork being popped, and by the second glass he’d taken advantage of the floor-length tablecloth to play a very coy game of footsie. Things were going very, very well indeed—

                “Thomas? Is that you?” a distant voice called, but Thomas’ attention was elsewhere.

                “You’ve got a little bit of jam just here, sir,” Thomas murmured, leaning across the table. “If you’ll let me—“

                “Thomas! I say, Thomas Barrow!”

                Thomas and Edward started away from each other as if they’d received an electric shock. Thomas turned in his chair, furious—but his stomach dropped like a stone when he saw the owner of the voice.

                “Thomas!” it was Robert Crawley, the Earl of Grantham, calling his name with such boisterous cheer. He was practically oozing good will, and in that moment Thomas hated him more than he ever had in his four years of service.

 “It _is_ you!” He strode past the tables of diners, not caring that he’d suddenly made Thomas’ less-than-discreet rendezvous the center of attention. “What on Earth are you doing here, old chap?”

                Thomas didn’t remember leaping to his feet—it seemed that even years after leaving Downton, old habits died hard.

                “Milord—I—“ Thomas stammered, mind racing. What was he even supposed to say? He briefly considered ‘sod off’, but that wouldn’t help anyone, least of all Edward— no matter how personally satisfying Thomas might have found it.

                The Earl’s cheery expression faltered a little bit. His eye slid across the table to Thomas’ dining companion. His impeccable breeding couldn’t stop him from raising his eyebrows slightly as he took in the sight of Edward’s scars and opaque irises. Thomas felts a curl of rage in his gut—how _dare_ he stare—?

                “Barrow,” Edward called. He placed his napkin on the table and his posture shifted, slightly—no longer open and comfortable, now he sat straight-backed with his chin raised. “Would you be so kind as to introduce me to your friend?”

                “Yessir,” Thomas replied, automatically, grateful for the out. “This is my—my former employer, his Lordship Robert Crawley, the Earl of Grantham. Milord, this is—“ _my lover and my best friend_ — “Sir Edward Courtenay.”

                “Please, there’s no need for that,” Earl Grantham said, extending his hand. He realized his mistake a split second later, but was simply too well-bred to retract.

                “His Lordship has offered his hand to shake,” Thomas announced, without missing a beat. Edward graciously offered his own, with Grantham adjusting to meet him. In the past Thomas would have relished the chance to put old Crawley off-kilter, but now it came at the price of making Edward feel awkward and was hardly worth it. His stomach churned.  

                But Edward wasn’t going to let him feel guilty for very long.

                “I’ve heard so much about T-- _Barrow’s_ time in your employ,” he was saying. “At—Downton Abbey, isn’t it?”

                “Only good things, I hope,” the Earl said, his easy smile returning. He made a careless gesture, “please, Barrow, sit. I didn’t mean to interrupt…” he trailed off, shooting a questioning look at Thomas. _Whatever it is_ you’re _doing in a respectable establishment like this_ , he was thinking.

 _It’s none of your business what I’m doing, you bastard,_ Thomas seethed _. You’ve poked around, now why don’t you go_ —

“Of course,” Edward smiled. “Perhaps we can have another chair pulled up—I’d love to hear some more.” Thomas felt his mouth fall open in horror.

                 “That is, if you have the time…?”

                _No. You don’t have time. You have to fuck off back to Downton and sit on your arse all day_ —

                “I certainly do!” Earl Grantham smiled, and Thomas bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting. The chair was brought, and Thomas and the Earl sat as one. There had been a time he would have relished the fact that he was sharing a table with a Crawley instead of waiting on it.

                Now he was too nerve-wracked to care.

                “Courtenay,” the Earl was saying, looking thoughtful. “That’s the Somerset Courtenays?”

                Edward winced slightly. “Devonshire, actually.” Thomas hoped Grantham would take the hint and drop the topic of Edward’s family soon.

                “Oh, yes, that’s right—how could I forget? With the lovely house at Chatsworth—we stayed there once, when I was a boy, on a trip to Cornwall.” It was clear the Earl’s memories of Chatsworth were much fonder than Edward’s current feelings, but he moved on to even more fraught subjects:

“So how do you know our Barrow?” Grantham asked. Thomas nervously toyed with his fork.

                “From the war,” Edward said, his smile slightly too tight. “I was actually a patient at Downton Cottage Hospital.”

                “Were you really! My word, what a small world!”

                “Indeed. Barrow was quite the taskmaster when I was under his care.”

                “That certainly sounds like Thomas,” Grantham said, with an unreadable sidelong look at his former footman. Thomas briefly fantasized about taking the bottle of champagne and smashing it over the Earl’s gently-born head.

                 But Edward just smiled. “He and Nurse Crawley—I mean, Lady Sibyl were the only ones who could have done me any good. It’s because of them that I made it through those days at all.” The Earl’s face darkened at the mention of his late daughter, and Edward seemed to notice the shift in atmosphere.

                “Lady Sibyl was nothing but kind to me, and to all the men under her care,” Edward went on, his voice soft. “I—I know I sent you a letter, but I had hoped that one day I could tell you in person just how much her work meant to me—to _all_ of us— and how very, very tragic her passing is…”

                The Earl closed his eyes, and even Thomas felt compelled to glance away and give him some privacy. Sibyl had been the least objectionable Crawley by far. Even he had grieved her loss.

                “Thank you,” Earl Grantham said, after a long moment. “Sibyl touched every life in her care, it seems.” He looked back up at Edward, studying him. “I _do_ remember your letter now—it is good to have a face to put to the name. I supposed you didn’t convalesce at the Abbey?”

                 Edward shook his head. “No—I was sent to Farley Hall before Downton was ready to take patients.”

                He omitted the part of the story where he’d had to recover a second time from his thwarted suicide before being sent to convalesce.

                “Farley Hall? Isn’t that where you ended up, Thomas?” The Earl’s voice was carefully neutral, but Thomas felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise all the same.

                _Calm down. He doesn’t know. He can’t know_ —

                “Yes, it was the most amazing coincidence,” Edward lied, smoothly.  “Having a friendly face around did wonders for my recovery. So much good, in fact, that once we were discharged I asked Barrow to stay on as my aide.”

                “Your aide?”

                “His duties go above and beyond that of a valet, I’m afraid. He and I are in inseparable-- it’s dreadfully difficult to navigate things like a menu in my condition.”

                Thomas hated to see Edward do this—to fall on his own sword, when he’d fought tooth and nail for independence and recognition— just for his sake. But he couldn’t deny that it was an artful save. Lord Grantham was nodding thoughtfully, any suspicions he may have had banished.

                “I see. That’s a rather happy coincidence.”

                “Very happy,” Edward agreed, with a secret smile. Thomas wanted to smirk and kick him under the table at the same time.

                “But what are you doing here in York?”

                “Finally getting around to finishing my studies. I was at Oxford before—before the war. I’ve only recently become re-enrolled at the Royal York College for the Blind.”

                “Good for you! That’s the spirit! Get back on the horse and all that,” the Earl said, enthusiastically _. He’s not one of your dumb yellow mutts_ , Thomas seethed, but Edward took it in stride, nodding politely. “I suppose the term’s over now?” Earl Grantham probed.

                “I sat my last exam Friday.”

                 “Very good! So it’s off back to Chatsworth for Christmas break, I take it?”

                Edward’s smile faltered. Thomas’ hands curled into fists in his lap, so hard the leather of his glove creaked.

                “No,” he said, softly. “I don’t think—it’s quite a way from here, and I don’t want to be a bother…”

                To his credit, Lord Grantham’s confused expression gave way to one with enough thunderous fury to rival Thomas’.

                “—I’ve got a small house here in York, it’s very comfortable, so it’s not as though I’ll be living in the dormitories or—“

                “I’m sorry, I simply cannot allow that,” the Earl said, with an air of finality. Edward paused, baffled.

                “Lord Grantham—?”

                “You’ll have Christmas with us at Downton,” Grantham announced, as if issuing a decree. “Any friend of Sibyl’s will always be welcome in our home.”

                “That’s—that’s very generous of you—“ Edward stumbled, wide-eyed. “But I couldn’t possibly impose—“

                “I insist—it wouldn’t be an imposition at all. If anything, you’d be doing us all a favor, bringing in some company other than Rosamund’s ghastly new beau or whomever Mama wants to throw at Edith next. Barrow is welcome to come with you, of course—it would be good to see the old stomping grounds, wouldn’t it?”

                “That’s very considerate of you, milord,” Thomas said, trying to strike the right balance between appropriately grateful and _Edward for both our sakes say_ no _to this wretched idea—_

                “That sounds…” Edward started, slowly, and Thomas dared to hope—“….very nice, actually.”

                It took all of Thomas’ strength not to fling his napkin in Edward’s face.

                “Excellent!” Grantham beamed. “It’s settled. I’ll ring ahead and have things sorted out—come anytime you like in the next three days or so.” Something occurred to him and he pulled out his pocket watch. “Golly! Is that really the time? I’m dreadfully sorry, Courtenay, I simply must be off if I’m to catch the train—” Robert stood, and Thomas very pointedly stayed in his chair, barely able to control himself as it was, “—but any later than a week and I’ll be back to make inquiries about your whereabouts. It will be a grand old time— you really mustn’t keep us waiting.” Edward smiled again at that.

                “I won’t.”                           

                The Earl gave Edward a hearty clap on the back, and he tensed at the unexpected touch. Grantham, with his usual tact, didn’t seem to notice.

                “Splendid!” he beamed.

* * *

 

                _Splendid_ , Thomas thought to himself with a sneer. Oh, bloody _splendid_ , sure. Instead of a cozy Christmas in the home they’d risked everything for, he’d have Carson barking orders at him while Bates smirked in the corner. It was the exact scenario he’d gone to the trenches to escape.

                _I didn’t spend two years at the front for this_ , Thomas thought, bitterly. He longed for a cigarette, but his hands were occupied with his and Edward’s combined luggage. He protested as Edward made his way cautiously down from the carriage, with nothing but his stick and free hand for guidance, but was shooed off for his troubles. A nearby porter saw the scene and headed their way, but Edward successfully navigated himself onto the platform before there could be a scene.

                “Really, Thomas,” he said, with a note of real irritation. “I’ve been doing this for more than three years now. You don’t have to _fuss_.”

                “It’s my _job_ to fuss, sir,” Thomas muttered, but didn’t push it any further than that. He fell into his role of navigator, murmuring: “We’re coming up on a set of stairs, the handrail is just there on your right…”

* * *

 

                There was the familiar scrape of chairs as Robert made his way into the Servant’s Hall—ah, blast, he always did manage to blunder into their luncheon.

                “I’m terribly sorry, do sit down,” he said, with apologetic motions. “I only wanted to pop in and see Carson for a moment—”

                “Yes, Milord?” Carson remained standing, ensuring that no one else could return to their luncheon until he felt it proper.

                “I’m afraid I’ve made a last-minute adjustment to our slate of guests—we’ll have one more joining us for Christmas.”

                “I believe we have time to make the necessary adjustments, Milord,” Mrs. Hughes chimed in from Carson’s left. “I’ll just let Mrs. Patmore know and have the maids get another room prepared.”

                “Excellent!” Robert beamed. “I’ll be off, then, I _am_ sorry to have interrupted—“

                “If I may ask, Milord,” Carson interjected, just as he was turning to leave. “Is this guest anyone we know?”

                “I don’t think so,” Robert admitted. “It’s was a rather spur-of-the-moment decision on my part. A Sir Edward Courtenay?”

                Carson solemnly shook his head, and Robert suppressed a laugh. So he hadn’t had time to memorize all of Burke’s Peerage just yet. A thought occurred to him: “Though I suppose you’ll all know his man.”

                “Will we, Milord?”

                “Yes—it was Thomas that I spotted first, actually.”

                “Thomas?” O’Brien tilted her head, her expression one of veiled curiosity.

                “ _Thomas_?” Carson echoed her, stricken. Bates stared up at him as though he’d announced the Kaiser was coming to spend Christmas with them.  The mood in the servant’s hall suddenly seemed very grim, as though the end of days were upon them.

                Robert began to wonder if he’d been a little rash in issuing his invitation.

* * *

 

                Cora certainly seemed to think so.

                “Really, Robert,” she said, as O’Brien gave her one last once-over before declaring her ready for bed and departing. “I do wish you’d at least _pretend_ to ask for my permission.”

                “I’m sorry, my darling,” he said, “but if you’d been there you would have agreed with me in an instant. He was dear to Sybil, after all.”

                Cora sighed. “It would be good to hear from one of Sibyl’s _respectable_ friends,” she relented, with a sad smile. “They always were rare. How did you bump into him, again?”

                Robert went over the whole story with her—seeing Thomas, meeting with Courtenay, the way he’d captured Robert’s heart with his genuine grief over Sybil’s loss.

                “And I’m telling you, that good-for-nothing family of his—“ 

                “Oh Robert, you can’t _know_ that his family is awful,” Cora said, with a fond exasperation.

                “Yes I can. No young man has any right to be that unhappy about Christmas—certainly not any young man who gave his eyesight for King and Country.”

                “I can hear the capital letters when you say that,” she murmured.

                “I’m serious,” Robert stopped fiddling with his dressing gown and looked her straight in the eye. “He was out there in the trenches while I was here, being thoroughly _useless_. I won’t see him thrown out like so much rubbish because he’s been crippled keeping England English.”

                “And you are a better man than most for that,” Cora agreed, delicately. “But…” she weighed her words carefully. “I want Sir Courtenay to have a lovely Christmas as much as you do. He deserves that much—and it _is_ what Sybil would have wanted. But…do you think you’re doing him any favors, inviting him out here in his condition?”

                “Whatever do you mean?”

                “I’m just afraid you’re going to bring him out here to remind him of all the things he can’t do,” Cora said, gently. “I mean, will you take him out with you hunting? Riding? _Shooting—_?”

                “I see your point,” Robert cut her off, waspishly, “There’s no need to be unkind about it.”

                “I’m not trying to be _unkind_ ,” she said, in her most Robert-be-practical-for-once voice, “I just don’t think you’ve thought this all the way through.”

                Robert sighed. “You may have a point there,” he said. “We may have to do a slight re-ordering of our schedule,” he turned, regarding her sharply: “though I hope you’re not asking me to un-invite him.”

                “I wouldn’t dream of it! I don’t have a heart of stone,” Cora patted him on the shoulder, like an indulgent nanny with her favorite child. “You’ve just given me a lot to do, trying to think up ways to keep our poor young soldier entertained.”

                “You aren’t convinced,” Robert said, flatly. “Here—“ he disappeared into his dressing room for a moment, and emerged holding a leaf of paper.

                “This is the letter he sent,” Robert said, unfolding it. “I dug it out earlier, to look at it—“ he eased back into bed, cleared his throat, and began to read aloud:

                “ _My Dear_ _Lord Grantham: I’m afraid we’ve never met, and I am so very sorry to be writing to you under such circumstances. I was a patient in Downton Village hospital in the April of 1917, having just arrived from Arras…_ it goes on— _I have never known such tenderness and gentleness in my life as I received from Nurse Crawley_. _Your daughter was a light in my life, at a time when I had been plunged into darkness and could see no other way out…I feel her loss as keenly as though she were my own sister_ … _She will never be forgotten, not be me or anyone she worked with during the war_ —”

                “Please,” Cora said, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to cry before bed.”

                Robert nodded, running a thumb along the side of the paper. “I suppose it’s been dictated,” he said, his own voice husky. “Though he did sign it at the bottom—“ he pointed out the shaky letters.

                “There’s a postscript on the back,” Cora pointed out.

                “So there is—huh, look at this. It’s from _Thomas_.”

                “Thomas?”

                “Yes— _There’s no sense in any of it. It’s wrong that Lady Sybil is dead and the worst of the worst can still walk the earth as free men. She never did any harm in her whole life.She were_ —ah, bit of a slip-up— _she were_ _always_ _kind to me, and I’ll never forget that kindness— not as long as I live. T. Barrow_.”

                “That’s rather heartfelt, coming from Thomas,” Cora said.

                “Coming from Thomas it’s nearly histrionic,” Robert replied. “Darling Sybil—she really could touch every heart.”

                “Our darling girl,” Cora replied, in hushed tones. She curled closer to Robert, laying her head on his shoulder.

                “I feel—and I hope you agree—that having someone who knew Sybil in the house—someone who cherished her as we did—might…soften the blow…” Robert trailed off, as though he didn’t trust himself to finish the thought.

                “It’s our first Christmas without her,” Cora said, with the bluntness of grief.

                “Yes.”

                “It’s a very sweet idea,” She said, reaching over and squeezing his hand. “There’s no better way to honor her memory.” They sat like that, drawing strength from each other, for a long moment.

                 “I suppose Sir Courtenay dictates these to Thomas, then,” Robert remarked, flipping the letter back and forth, comparing the writing. “His penmanship is rather smart, even if his grammar is appalling.”

                “Who knew Thomas had so many hidden talents?”

                “Who, indeed?” Robert mused. “You understand now, why I couldn’t take the time to consult you before inviting Sir Edward here. A choice between Christmas alone with no one but Thomas for company and Christmas with his _beastly_ family is no choice at all.”

                “It does sound rather grim,” Cora admitted. “I suppose I can forgive you for extending our guest list, just this once.” She pursed her lips, lost in thought. “We will have to make sure he’s properly accommodated though. I’d hate to be a poor hostess. Did you tell Mrs. Hughes to have Matthew’s old room on the ground floor made up?”

                “Why?” Robert asked, puzzled. “His legs aren’t the problem.”

                Cora looked upwards, as if praying for strength.

* * *

 

                “We’ve just turned onto the estate proper,” Thomas said, craning to look at Edward. “We’ll arrive soon, sir.”

                “Thank you, Barrow,” Edward replied. Thomas tried to pretend like he didn’t notice how unbearably rude the new chauffeur, Grant, was acting. His gaze kept wandering up to his rearview mirror, staring at Edward’s scars.

                _Keep your eyes on the bloody road!_ Thomas wanted to scream. He needed a cigarette like he needed air.

                “What does it look like?” Edward asked, breaking Thomas’ dark thoughts.

                “What? Downton?” Thomas shrugged. “Big. Jacobean revival, Carson says. The stone’s a bit yellow.”

                “ ‘Big’,” Edward repeated back to him, rolling his eyes. “ ‘Jacobean revival’. Enlightening as ever, Barrow. Would you tell me, Grant?”

                “Sir?” the chauffeur started at being addressed.

                “What do you see?”  

                Grant hesitated, taking a gentle curve. “It’s a sight, for sure,” he started, hesitantly. “There’s snow on the ground, m’lord, just a little, and the evergreens have just the barest frosting, like a sprinkle of sugar. They’re thick here, but every once and a while you can see the Abbey peak out like a mirage. It’s—glittering, like gingerbread castle, or a fairy palace.”

                “My word! What a picture,” Edward said, wistfully. “I didn’t know you were a poet, Mr. Grant.”

                Grant beamed. Thomas scowled.

                “We’ve just come into view,” the chauffeur went on, eagerly, having gotten a taste for it now. “The Abbey’s big and square and tiered like a wedding cake. There’s windows all over. It’s got one big tower that rises over all the others, and the Earl’s flag is flapping in the breeze against a steely grey sky…”

                Thomas ground his teeth as Edward listened, nodding politely. He never thought he’d be as happy to arrive at place he’d wasted so many years of his life on as he was when they pulled in front of the imposing doors.

                “We’re here,” he announced, without ceremony, as footmen descended on the car.

* * *

 

                The car came into view, and Carson made last minute adjustments, nudging the lineup of maids just a hair tighter.

                “Why are you bothering?” Mrs. Hughes whispered. “He can’t see it.”

                “ _I_ will know,” Carson replied, under his breath. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

                Mrs. Hughes looked as though she had something to say that, but chose discretion instead.

                Carson felt his lip curl with distaste as Alfred opened the door to the motor and Thomas Barrow oiled out. It had been—good Lord, it had been six years now since Thomas had escaped any retribution for his crimes by running off to the army. He was more solidly built, less boyish than he had been as a footman, but his eyes were the same—pale and unkind. Thomas must have felt the weight of his stare, turning to meet his gaze—

                He smiled—that awful, flat, _smug_ smile of his, and Carson felt his eyelid twitch. There’d be wigs on the green before Christmas day if that little—

                But then it was over before Carson could even finish his thought, and Thomas busied himself helping his employer of the car. Sir Courtenay was more slightly built than his valet, with delicate features and long pianist’s fingers. Carson thought he looked more like a bohemian poet than a former soldier—except for the clear damage to his face.

                O’Brien had told them, of course, about the man’s condition—mostly the way her Ladyship despaired of being a proper hostess to a man who couldn’t partake in most of what the house had to offer. Carson himself had doubts, but as he _often_ reminded O’Brien, it simply wasn’t their place to voice them. Now was the moment—they would see whether or not his Lordship had been too brash in his invitation.

                Carson tensed as Courtenay made his way out of the car, nearly screaming at the way Alfred hovered uselessly, neither helping nor standing aside and allowing everyone some _dignity_.

                _Go be large and unhelpful elsewhere_ , Carson tried to communicate silently. His glare seemed to only make his oversized footman more nervous.

                But despite Alfred’s floundering, Courtenay seemed to do just fine on his own. He held out a steadying hand and was met by Thomas, of all people. With his free hand Courtenay drew a long wooden cane from the backseat and began to tap his way forward, dismissing Thomas with a pat.

                “Sir Edward!” His Lordship was in a jovial mood. “How wonderful it is to see you—right on time!”

                Courtenay smiled, placing his stick under his arm for a moment and offering his hand, which His Lordship grasped warmly. “This is my wife, Lady Grantham—“

                Lady Grantham extended her hand, and Thomas leaned to whisper in Courtenay’s ear. The young man seemed to understand, and was able to take and kiss her ladyship’s hand with minimum fuss. It was—an elegant system, Carson had to admit. It minimized any potential embarrassment for all parties involved. Thomas could be very discreet, when he chose to—which had always made it all the more infuriating that he _seldom_ chose to exercise that gift for discretion.

                “I hope your journey wasn’t too unpleasant?” Her Ladyship asked.

                “Not at all! Your chauffeur paints rather lovely picture of your home. It was dreadfully generous of you to send him for us.”

                _Us?_ Carson’s brow furrowed. The car was for him, that Thomas rode along was simply understood— but he had no time to contemplate the meaning behind Courtenay’s word choice. Thomas gave his employer’s arm a light squeeze before leaving him to his small talk and rounding on Carson, marching towards the line with an unbearably cocky air.

                “Where will Sir Courtenay being staying?” Thomas demanded, without preamble. Carson raised an eyebrow.

                “Good afternoon to you as well, young Thomas.”

                Thomas bared his teeth in an expression disguised as a smile. “It’s _Mr. Barrow_ these days.”

                “I’m sure it is,” Carson said, with mock indulgence. “We’ve made up the Princess Amelia.”

                “At the top of the stairs?” Thomas bristled with indignation. “Where you unaware that my employer requires certain accommodations—?”

                He’d only been reunited with his thieving footman for bare seconds and Carson was already close to violence. “If Sir Courtenay finds the current arrangements are unsuitable, then adjustments can be made—“

                “Barrow?” Courtenay called, and Thomas turned—Carson thought, for a fraction of a second, that Thomas’ icy countenance had thawed.

                “I’m sorting out our arrangements, Sir, I’ll be with you in just a moment,” he turned back to Carson, any flicker of former warmth gone. “I’ll take him up to the room and get things settled, but I want everyone assembled in the servants’ hall when I get back—“

                “You _what_?” Carson demanded, strangling his bark at the last moment.  Thomas raised an eyebrow.

                “My employer, a guest of this house, has certain requirements that must be met if things are to run smoothly,” Thomas replied. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Surely you don’t want things to get overly complicated, do you Mr. Carson?” Carson opened his mouth to reply, but Thomas cut him off again “Just be ready when I come down.” With that he turned on his heel, gravel crunching beneath his feet as he stalked off to take his place at Courtenay’s side.

                “Oi! Stilts!” he called to Alfred as he passed. “Do they pay you to stand around? Get these things up to the Princess Amelia— before the end of the century, if you don’t mind!”

                “My word!” Mrs. Hughes exclaimed, under her breath. “If we thought that boy was too big for his britches when he left us—“

                “I’m not sure they _make_ hats to fit a fat head like that,” Carson muttered in agreement.

                It was shaping up be a rather dreary Christmas for everyone downstairs.

* * *

 

                “That’s the last of them, then,” the footman said, shooting Thomas a sour look as he placed the final valise at the edge of the bed.

                “Then what are you still doing here?” Thomas drawled. It was remarkable how much the man could look like a bad tempered trout. The other footman, shorter but with a face like a matinee idol, had ducked out at the first opportunity. Smart lad, and good looking—he might have caught Thomas’ eye, once upon a time.

                “Go on, get—“ Thomas said, making shooing motions.

                “Wait.” Thomas and the footman turned as one. Edward, who had previously been running a hand over the dresser was now making his way toward Alfred, using the bed as a guide. He stopped a reasonable distance from the footman and smiled. “What’s your name?”

                The footman blinked. “Er—Alfred, sir.”

                “Well, Alfred. Thank you very much for bring all that up here.”

                The footman—Alfred— looked surprised. “It—it weren’t anything , sir.”

                “Well, it was to me. Thank you all the same.” Edward withdrew his wallet, running his fingers carefully over the contents, and withdrew a crown. He held the coin up between his fingers, and Alfred looked even _more_ like a trout as he gaped in surprise. 

                “I couldn’t take that—“

                “I’m afraid you’ll have to,” Edward said, conspiratorially. “Or else I’ll just have to give it to Thomas and he’ll put it in your hands for me.” Alfred seemed just as distressed by the ideas as Thomas was, and approached Edward as though the man were an easily spooked horse.

                “It’s—a _crown_ though. Did you mean to--?” Alfred stopped, flustered. “I mean, not saying you wouldn’t know, but—“

                “I take your meaning,” Edward replied, with an air of long-suffering patience. “But yes, I do intend to give you this. It was quite a few stairs you hauled these up—I counted.”

                “I—right. Yes.” Alfred took the coin and shoved it in the pocket of his livery. “Thank you, sir. Is there anything else…?”

                “Barrow will take it from here, I think.”

                _Barrow certainly will_ , Thomas thought to himself. _If Alfred will ever leave_ —

                The door shut with a merciful ‘click’. “You’re not supposed to tip them ‘til you leave, you know—“ he started, but Edward cut him off.

                “Thomas, I’m surprised at you,” Thomas’ eyebrows shot up as he turned back to Edward, who was standing with his arms folded across his chest.

                “Me? Why?”

                “You were perfectly _wretched_ to young Alfred just now.”

                Thomas snorted. “He’s a footman. As your valet, it’s my _prerogative_ to—“

                “Prerogative nothing! Weren’t _you_ a footman before the war? Here, in this very house?” Edward pressed.

                “I was,” Thomas replied, evenly. “There’s a reason I chose the trenches over continuing to be one.” Edward looked pained at his flippancy.

                “If you know it’s that bad, then why be so _nasty_ —?”

                “’Cause I _can_ ,” Thomas answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He clicked open the valise and began unpacking, setting shirts aside, but Edward’s hand on his arm caused him to pause.

                “Won’t you at least to _try_ to rekindle your friendships here?” he asked, quietly.

                “What makes you assume I _had_ any friends here?” Edward seemed genuinely taken aback.

                “There as the woman you talked about—O’Sullivan—“

                “ _O’Brien_ ,” Thomas corrected, exasperated. “And that were more of an alliance than us being pals.”

                “You were here for _four years_ , how could you not have—“ Edward cut himself off. He rubbed his temples, hand passing over his sightless eyes. “I’ve brought you here on a fool’s errand.”

                Thomas turned from his unpacking. “What do you mean?”

                “I thought—“ Edward sighed, his eyes focused somewhere past Thomas. “I thought this would be a nice change of pace—you’d see your old friends and get back in touch—“

                Thomas snorted. _I’ve done my best to stay_ out _of touch_ , he thought, but Edward pressed on.

                “—but I see now I was being selfish.” Edward smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I wanted to get out to the country so badly, I assumed you’d see it my way once we got here. But—it’s not a holiday for you, is it?”

                _It bloody well isn’t_ , Thomas thought, thinking longingly of their small little home, done up with just a little holly on the mantle and a sprig of mistletoe he’d place into Edward’s hand until he got the meaning—

                --but Thomas’ resolve weakened when he also remembered how Edward got restless in the house, complained about wanting to stretch his legs and the smoky city air, how he stopped asking after the post when he realized no more letters were coming from Chatsworth…

                Thomas sighed. He was worse than soft.

                He was _sentimental_.

                “I won’t pretend like I understand why you don’t want our Christmas to be private—“ he started, and Edward tried to cut him off:

                “Thomas, we live alone. How much more privacy—?”

                “Let me finish! You’re mad for thinking this is a good idea—“

                Edward set his jaw, but Thomas pressed on:

                “But I won’t—insist that we stay shut up,” he finished. “Not if this is something you really want.”

                Edward’s expression softened. “We knew it was going to be difficult—you pretending to be my servant—“

                “Pretend nothing,” Thomas muttered, “the way I work—“

                Edward reached out and Thomas took his hand automatically. “You know what it means to me,” Edward said, softly. “Every second of it.”

                He gave Thomas’ hand a little squeeze, bringing to his mouth to just barely brush it against is lips. Thomas flushed.

                “Not fair. You know that always works on me,” he mumbled.

                “I try to use it as sparingly as I can,” Edward smiled. “I love you, you know. Even if you are cruel to footmen.”

                “And I love you, even if you are a bleeding heart ,” Thomas replied, fondly. “But really—don’t tip them anymore until we leave, unless you want maids and hallboys following you around like beggar children.”

                “I’m only trying to keep them from spitting in your food,” Edward teased. “Not that you wouldn’t deserve it—“

                They were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. “Come in!” Edward called, as Thomas snatched his hand back from Edward’s grasp. The door creaked open, and Alfred the footman reappeared. Thomas wanted to throttle him.

                _If only he could reach his neck_ …

                “Good afternoon, Sir Courtenay,” the footman announced. “It’s—um, it’s Alfred again.”

                “Hello, Alfred again.” Sometimes, Thomas wondered why he bothered with Edward.

                “Mr. Branson and Mr. Crawley have just come back from Yewtree, and tea will be served in the library—if you’d like to come down—“

                 “I certainly would,” Edward said. “Have you come to escort me?”

                “Erm—“ Alfred looked at Thomas, panicked, for some kind of instruction. Thomas very pointedly did not help him. “I—suppose so,” he admitted.

                “Excellent, I would love to go down, “Edward replied, briskly. “Barrow—?”

                “I’ll finish unpacking, and then I’ve a few things to clear up downstairs,” Thomas said, with wolfish smile. He’d relish a chance to boss Old Carson around—the war really had changed things! “I’ll collect you when the dressing gong is rung.”

                “As long as you remember to take a moment for yourself,” Edward murmured. Thomas held his breath, but Edward didn’t seem to notice—he turned to the bed, finding his stick where he’d laid it. He easily tapped his way to the door—having spent the few moments they’d had in the room exploring its perimeters—and breezed past Alfred, into the hall.

                “If you would—I mean if you like, you can take me arm, sir…”

                “Where—all the way up there? My word! You _are_ tall…”

                Thomas didn’t breathe again until he heard Edward’s cheery small talk fade away down the hall. It was hard to tell by looking at him—neat, quiet, polished—but Edward could be foolhardy, sometimes, no matter how often Thomas tried to impress upon him the dangers of their situation.

                Edward simply wasn’t used to this—to _any_ of it. He’d had servants, of course, but he wasn’t a _peer_ —he didn’t have the same intricate understanding of nobility that the Crawleys did. In every word spoken, every gesture, the Earl and Countess of Grantham conveyed generations of experience in lording it over the people of their little kingdom. Anyone who’d spent even a day at Downton could tell that Edward simply didn’t, and his ease with Thomas would only draw more attention to their interactions from curious bystanders. Edward was simply too familiar, even if Thomas really was _just_ his valet.

                And since he wasn’t…

                Edward liked girls as well as men. He’d kept things to himself, only fooled around with lads at Oxford for a lark (“and who didn’t?” he added, with a kind of easy openness that made Thomas’ mouth hang open) but he’d never—well. Not before Thomas. He was new to this—to the covert world Thomas had lived in his entire life, listening for footsteps outside the door, watching for suspicious eyes in the dark…

                He didn’t know the stakes. They weren’t _real_ to him, not the way they were to Thomas. Thomas ran a shaky hand over his hair, trying to calm himself. Men like him went to prison—and they didn’t come out. Edward, the Duke of Crowborough, the countless others who had taken their fill of him and cast him aside—they could skate by, their money and their breeding holding up where their duties as Men Of Society fell short, and they could always flee to France well before the police arrived. But Thomas…

                They couldn’t risk it. This had been a bad idea, no matter what Edward thought—but it was too late to back out now. They were stuck here, in the lion’s den, until the holidays had passed.

                Thomas prayed they’d make it to see morning.

* * *

 

                “Can you believe it?” Carson fumed, too angry to do anything but gesture with the polishing cloth he was holding. “The nerve! The _cheek_ \--!”

                “We couldn’t believe it the first time you asked us,” Mrs. Hughes replied, rolling her eyes. “Though why you’re surprised that Mr. Barrow is still a little you-know-what, I cannot say.”

                “Ordering us to assemble in the servant’s hall, that he may come down from on high and deliver his commandments—“

                “You don’t much care for the shoe on the other foot,” O’Brien muttered, low enough that Carson couldn’t hear.

                “The way he was strutting about, as though he were valet to the Prince of Wales himself—“

                “Surely you can’t fault Thomas for having found his feudal spirit at long last?” Mrs. Hughes teased. Carson looked deeply affronted at this betrayal from what had long been his staunchest ally.

                “He’s found a place where he can play at being a petty tyrant—“

                “It’s a bit strange,” Bates piped up, from the chair in the corner. “From the way Miss O’Brien was talking, Thomas really _was_ working in Buckingham Palace—but I’ve never heard of this Sir Courtenay…”

                “And why would you have?” O’Brien cut him off, with her usual chilly brusqueness. “Are you His Lordship’s herald now, Mr. Bates?”

                Bates raised an eyebrow, but let it go.

                “The Courtenays are a perfectly respectable family—they’ve been in Devonshire for centuries.” Carson said, regarding O’Brien with a suspicious eye. “Sir Edward was in line for the family holding at Chatsworth.”

                “ ‘Was’?” Mrs. Hughes asked, brow furrowing. “You can’t mean he was disinherited?”

                “I’m afraid I do. They broke the entail and hollowed out the title after he came back—there was some question about his ability to run the estate.”

                “They never have!” Anna gasped, attention finally torn from her mending. 

                “Dreadful,” Mrs. Hughes shook her head. “When he lost the use of his eyes fighting the Hun.”

                “It seems a rather poor reward for his sacrifice,” Bates agreed. “I’m surprised to say it, but it speaks well of Mr. Barrow that he didn’t jump ship.”                                  

                “But it’s odd, isn’t it?” Anna said, slowly. “The Thomas we knew wouldn’t have given the time of day to a penniless baronet.”

                “Because _you_ knew Thomas so well,” O’Brien sneered.

                “There, there, Miss O’Brien,” Carson said, waving a hand dismissively.

                “Surely even you find the situation unusual?” Bates pressed her. “Or do your missives from Mr. Barrow grant you some insight?”

                “My letters are my business, thank you very much,” she said, flatly. “Keep to your own corner, nosy parker.” Carson and Hughes exchanged a look—Mrs. Hughes shrugged, as if to say _it was worth a try_. Ivy bustled in with a bowl of snap-peas, settling herself down at the table to work.

                “What’s he like though, Sir Courtenay?” She asked. “Is it true he’s got no eyes at all?”

                “Ivy!” Mrs. Hughes chided. “There’s no call to be rude. I don’t want to hear a word of gossip about our guest or his condition from you, do you understand?”

                “Sorry Mrs. Hughes!” she squeaked. “I were only wondrin’ ‘cause Madge said—“

                “I’ll be having a word with Madge too, don’t doubt it,” Mrs. Hughes said, with finality. “I’ll not permit that sort of talk about a guest in our house, be he Sir Courtenay or anyone else—“

                “Sir Courtenay is a perfect gentleman,” Alfred declared, appearing behind them from the hall. He’d shrugged out of his tailcoat and was carrying a candlestick. “A real one—he’s gracious and kind. I wouldn’t mind bein’ valet for him.”

                “High praise indeed,” Bates said, looking up at him curiously.

                “It’s well earned,” he shrugged. “But that Mr. Barrow—” Alfred went on, the corners of his mouth turning down in a scowl, “I wish Sir Courtenay had left him back in York. He’s a nasty one, he is.”

                “ _There’s_ the Thomas we know,” Anna murmured. Bates barely tried to conceal his smile, while O’Brien glared daggers across the table.

                “I dunno what a man like Sir Courtenay is doing with a man like Mr. Barrow,” Alfred said, shaking his head. 

                “There’s no accounting for taste,” Mrs. Hughes shrugged.

                “I can’t fathom what Mr. Barrow is doing with a man like Sir Courtenay,” Carson rumbled. All heads turned to him, surprised. Carson raised his chin. “I only mean that for a man as work-shy and sullen as Thomas, choosing employment as a _nursemaid_ in a less-than-minor household seems rather bizarre—”

                “I have my reasons,” Thomas drawled. Carson nearly jumped out of his skin, whipping around—Thomas leaned against the door frame, smiling that smug little half-smile of his, but his eyes were blazing with fury. “And I’ll thank you not to discuss my employer in such a manner. It’s beneath your station, and beneath the honor of this house, I think.” Mrs. Hughes’ mouth fell open, and Carson’s eyebrows nearly flew off his forehead. Even O’Brien looked equal parts taken aback and impressed.

                “I thought I asked for everyone to be ready when I came down with instruction?” Thomas went on, flicking his eyes over the table.

                “We can’t spare everyone at this hour,” Mrs. Hughes said, exasperated. “You should know that better than most. We’ve got more than enough right here as it is.”

                Thomas paused for a moment, as if he would object, but then launched right into his speech. “Very well. First off, I won’t be sleeping in the attics—I’ll have a cot in Sir Courtenay’s room, in case I’m needed during the night.”

                Mrs. Hughes raised an eyebrow at that, but only replied: “It can be done.”

                “Good. Tell the maids not to light the fires in the room—I’ll be taking care of all that while I’m here.” Mrs. Hughes eyebrows threatened to creep off her forehead altogether, but Thomas didn’t seem to notice. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a piece of paper with an almost theatrical flourish. “I have a list of things I expect from you lot while Sir Courtenay is visiting here. First off—no one is to approach Sir Courtenay without first verbally identifying yourself and your position relative to him…”

                Bates and Anna exchanged a long, dark look as Thomas rattled on. He didn’t notice their silent conspiracy—he was leaving no stone unturned now that he finally, _finally_ had one over on Carson. 

                “When you lay the silverware at Sir Courtenay’s place—Mr. Carson, you really should consider taking notes…”

* * *

 

                “Sir Edward Courtenay,” Alfred announced, and Edward felt more than a little awkward—he wondered if this would happen every time he walked into a room. He felt the weight of multiple pairs of eyes upon him—but then, he always felt that people were staring at him, these days. He immediately wished Thomas was here to whisper in his ear, assure them that they weren’t.

                _That’s part of the reason why you’re here in the first place_ , he told himself sternly.

                “Sir Edward!” that was Lord Grantham, sounded as though he was thrilled as can be. Edward smiled despite himself—the man’s warmth was infectious. “No trouble settling in, I hope?”

                “None at all, Lord Grantham,” replied, “your staff are all very gracious.”

                “I’m glad to hear it. And you simply must call Robert.”

                “In that case, please call me Edward.”

                “Thank you Alfred, that will be all,” Robert said, but Edward heard the smile in his voice. There was the sound of tea being poured, the clink of china against china as cups were handed out. Edward shifted from foot to foot, wondering if they were going to tell him where to sit.

                _May as well deal with it myself_.

                “Alfred, could you show me to my seat?” he asked, trying to sound as though it were a perfectly normal, reasonable request. _It is_ , he told himself firmly. _Don’t overthink this_ —

                “Of course, sir,” he reached out and found Alfred’s arm again, and there was a moment of awkward silence.

                “The red settee, I think,” Robert said, quickly. “Unless…?”

                “I’m sure its fine,” Edward said. He reached out one hand and found the arm, appreciating the rich fabric beneath his fingers before easing himself into his seat.

                “Let me—let me  introduce you,” Robert stumbled, but rallied: “This is Matthew Crawley, my heir, Mary’s husband—Mary’s just over there…”

                Edward held out his hand, and it was taken warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you—it’ll be nice to have a bit of boy’s club, for a change: you, me and Tom.”

                “That’s me,” came a voice to Matthew’s right—an Irishman, from the sound of it. “Tom Branson—I’m the land agent these days.” _Nurse Crawley’s_ _chauffeur_ , Edward thought to himself, smiling. Thomas had crowed over the news of their elopement for days (“She deserves better than the likes of _him_ , certainly, but won’t it make old Carson’s head spin!”), but that hardly seemed like a tactful thing to mention, especially given the rawness of Lady Sibyl’s passing.

                “Barrow has told me all about you,” he settled on, cautiously. It might give him an opening for condolences later.

                “Has he?” there was a clear note of tension in Tom’s voice. “Gracious, it’s a wonder you came at all.”

                “Only good things,” Edward lied with the ease of practice. He liked to think he was only imagining the skepticism in the silence that followed— Thomas did have very lofty ideas about the unsuitability of Lady Sibyl running off with a chauffeur, given his current situation, but they didn’t need to know that. “We were very fond of Nurse Crawley—I mean, Lady Sibyl,” he said, deciding to bite the bullet. “I cannot tell you how sorry we were to hear of her passing. It’s because of her care that I survived my injury.”

                Edward heard Tom swallow, hard. “Thank you,” he said, his voice tight. “That—it means quite a lot, to know that her memory is alive in the people she helped—well. Sibyl would have wanted it that way.”

                “Hear, hear,” Robert muttered, and Edward heard a soft “Dear Sibyl,” from further away that may have been Lady Grantham.

                “Barrow said she was a gentle and kind soul, even as a young girl. I rather think she was his favorite, if it’s not to forward of me to say so.”

                “Golly,” a woman drawled from somewhere to his left. “I suppose that qualifies Sybil for sainthood. I didn’t know Barrow had a kind word for _anyone_.”

                “Mary, please—it’s rude to speak ill of a man’s valet,” Lord Grantham said, with a long suffering air, but he didn’t disagree.

                “It’s quite alright,” Edward said, hastily. “Barrow can—er, have quite a mind of his own, really.”

                “But you’ve kept him on in spite of it,” Matthew said, the question clear in his voice.

                “Because of it, really. He keeps me on my toes,” Edward tried to keep the smile off his face. “He’s really more than my valet—“ _so much more_ “—and I think I’d go mad with a yes-man as my aide.”

                “Oh?” That was Mary, sounding equal parts curious and skeptical.

                “Indeed. Thomas—well, I suppose he’s my butler, my secretary, and he’s trying to talk me into buying a car so he can play chauffeur, as well.”

                “Gracious!”

                “I know—I’ve tried to put him off, seeing as we don’t really _need_ a car to get anywhere, and if we did we could always get a cab, but he insists.”

                “How very _industrious_ of him,” Mary murmured, as though she didn’t quite believe it.

                “Do you have any other staff?” That was Matthew, with what sounded like suspicion in his voice.

                _It’s not. You’re just being paranoid_.

                “Just Mrs. Anderson, our cook—wonderful woman, Swedish. Her daughters come in three times a week to handle laundry and tidy up a bit.”

                “It sounds a great dealer smaller than Chatsworth,” Robert remarked. Edward managed to keep his smile, but it was a near thing.

                “Yes. Well. It suits me, I think. I found myself wanting to live more simply, after the war.”

                “Of course,” Tom said, hurriedly.

                “Matthew was in France about the same time you were ,” Mary piped up, “popping in and out. Perhaps you two crossed paths at some point.”

                “I highly doubt it,” Matthew replied for him, and Edward could hear the eye roll in his voice. “And even if I had, how would I know? I barely even recognized Barrow under all the mud.”

                “Strange to think of Barrow crawling around in the muck,” she mused.

                “But you’ve no trouble imagining me?” Matthew teased.

                “Oh, don’t start—I only mean that he’s terribly fastidious—rather like a cat. I couldn’t have seen Barrow as one to volunteer for the front at all. It doesn’t seem like his cup of tea.”

                “I don’t think any of us enjoyed it much,” Edward said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. The room went stiflingly quiet. “But the war was ages ago—old news, really. I’m terribly interested to hear about your work as a land agent, Mr. Branson.”

                “Are you?” Mary asked, in disbelief.

                “Please, just Tom,” Tom seemed relieved that Edward was changing the subject. “I’m afraid Mary’s right—it’s not particularly riveting stuff. We’re looking at making the transition from wheat to livestock on a few key areas of the estate.”

                Edward nodded. “Smart move—there’s just no stopping the flood of American grain. The tide has turned, I’m afraid.”

                “Exactly!” Tom said, perhaps more eagerly than was seemly.

                “Have you been following the papers, then?” Matthew asked. Edward nodded.

                 “The writing’s on the wall. We were actually undertaking similar measures at Chatsworth before—” he stopped himself short. “Well—before.”

                There was a moment of awkward silence, and Edward braced himself for the soft, insincere words of pity—      

                 “What a happy coincidence!” Robert exclaimed. “Here we were, looking for an expert advisor, and one has fallen into our laps.”

                “Oh, Robert,” Cora started, “surely you won’t expect poor Edward to _work_ after you’ve asked him here on holiday—especially not for _free_ —“

                “I don’t mind,” Edward said, a hair too quickly. “I don’t mind at all.”

                “Tom and I looked at Yewtree today, but we’re thinking about going down to the Drake’s farm tomorrow—perhaps you’d like to come with us, Edward?”

                “Certainly!” Edward didn’t bother to hide how eager he was. “Unless—“ he turned, about where he thought Cora was. “Unless Lady Grantham has something planned?”

                “Nothing really,” Cora demurred, “we’re still waiting for Edith to come in from London. Go on—I’ll ask Mrs. Patmore to pack you a picnic lunch.”

                “That sounds lovely, Cousin Cora,” Matthew said. “What a treat!”

                “It’s settled, then,” Robert said, approvingly. “You see, we—or rather, Tom and Matthew were thinking about pigs, but I…”

                Edward smiled wide enough to stretch the scar tissue around his eyes

* * *

 

                “Well! He certainly gave you a dressing-down,” Mrs. Hughes said, when they were both safely squared away in Carson’s pantry. Mr. Carson looked deeply affronted.

                “Never in my wildest imaginations could I have dreamed up that list of demands! He waltzes in here like he owns the place—“

                “You’re just upset because you’ve finally met your match, and its _Thomas_ of all people,” Mrs. Hughes teased.

                “The day I am bested by Thomas Barrow is the day I’m cold in the ground,” Carson replied, with dark severity. He regarded Mrs. Hughes suspiciously. “You really don’t think there’s anything odd about Barrow’s—fanaticism?”

                She shrugged. “He always was good at the job, when he stopped complaining long enough do it. He was chomping at the bit to be a valet for years before the war.”

                “Yes, but you see,” Carson folded his hands, suddenly very serious. “There’s the question of how get got the job at all.”

                “What do you mean?”

                “I didn’t give Thomas a reference,” Carson said, seriously. “When he left for the front it was such a tidy way to be rid of him, I didn’t even consider it. I rather assumed he’d be blown to pieces, or find some occupation outside of service—either way, I had no intention of giving any kind of reference to a _thief_.”

                “So?”

                “So how’d he get hired in the first place?”

                Mrs. Hughes shrugged again. “War is its own reference, I suppose. Look at his Lordship and Mr. Bates.”

                “I hope you’re not comparing Barrow to Mr. Bates,” Carson said, coldly. “If you’ll remember, Bates wasn’t _actually_ a thief—that he served time and Thomas didn’t is just one of life’s great injustices.”

                “Thomas was in the army for five years. Maybe he’s put that all behind him now.”

                “But what if he hasn’t?” Carson leaned in, his expression grave. “That Thomas is working in any house ignorant of his past gives me alarm, but working for a blind man…” Carson trailed off, trying to order his thoughts. “He wouldn’t have to content himself with stealing trifles and odd ends, when he’s writing his own paycheck.”

                Mrs. Hughes mouth dropped open. “Mr. Carson! Do you really think _Thomas_ is capable of that?”

                “I think Thomas is _absolutely_ capable of that—and more! We knew him for four years, Mrs. Hughes—do you really think it’s beneath him?”

                Mrs. Hughes opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. She shook her head in disbelief.

                “I don’t want to believe it— I don’t want to believe that of _anyone_ , even Thomas Barrow,” she said, shaking her head. “But…” she released her breath, considering. “It makes a twisted kind of sense.” She looked up at Mr. Carson. “Are you planning to do something about it?”

                “Surely you agree that we must.”

                “I don’t much like the idea of leaving a fox guarding the henhouse,” Mrs. Hughes admitted, reluctantly, “but there’s nothing there but speculation. You don’t know that Thomas has taken so much as a cufflink.”

                “Once a thief, always a thief,” Carson said, grimly.

                “Even so…”

                “You’re right,” he admitted, after a long pause. “It wouldn’t do any good to go in guns blazing like a bunch of American cowboys. All we can do is wait and see.”

                “Mr. Carson,” Mrs. Hughes said, fondly, “you are the very last person on _earth_ who could be accused of acting like a cowboy.”

                “I take it as a compliment,” he replied, serenely.

* * *

 

                John was frowning—he didn’t know what his Lordship had been up to, but the sole on his loafer was pulling away from its upper _already_.

                “How are you holding up?” a quiet voice asked from the door. John smiled at that—it was a treat to see Anna in the middle of the day.

                “The shoe hasn’t bested me yet,” he said, lightly.

                “No, I don’t mean that.” Anna glanced behind her, checking for eavesdroppers, before sliding next to him with a pair of Lady Mary’s heels. “I mean with Thomas being back.”

                “I believe it’s Mr. Barrow now.”

                “Mr. Jump-Up-Your-Own-Arse,” Anna murmured, and John felt his eyebrows nearly disappear into his hair.

                “You’ll peel the paint with that kind of language.”

                Anna huffed. “Don’t pretend like you’re pleased to see him.”

                “It’s not what _I_ would have asked for Christmas, no,” John replied, teasingly. “But if that’s the price I must pay to spend it with you, then…”

                “Stop,” Anna said, blushing, “you’re too silly by half, Mr. Bates!” Her smile faded, and she was serious once again. “I don’t like that he’s here.”

                “It’s not permanent. He’ll be gone after New Year’s.”

                “It’s still too long,” she said, shaking her head. “Have you really forgotten how nasty he was to you?”

                “I certainly haven’t. It’s not the kind of thing one forgets,” John replied, dryly. “But Thomas was after my job—he’s bright enough to realize that’s a fool’s errand now. He’s onto bigger things.”

                “Is he?” Anna looked at him sideways. “An earl to a baronet—a former baronet at that…it’s quite a tumble. And he made such a big fuss about not being a servant during the war, whenever O’Brien dragged him up here to gloat. Now here he is, back where he started.”

                “He wanted to be a valet, and he’s a valet.” John shrugged.

                “He wanted a chance to lord it over us downstairs. He’s got no staff to boss around in that house in York. And…” Anna pressed her lips together. “Mr. Carson was a bit harsh to say to say it the way he did, but—Thomas isn’t just a valet, is he? He’s Sir Courtenay’s eyes. It’s not the kind of life he was always boasting about having one day.”

                John considered. “It’s true our Thomas isn’t much of a nurturer, but I don’t think we’re being quite fair to Sir Courtenay. He’s not _helpless_.” He tried to smother the irritation in his voice, but Anna caught it, and laid a hand on his arm. John knew perfectly well what it was like to give something to the war and be consigned to the scrap heap for your trouble.

                “Maybe not, but why take on a man like Thomas? They’ve got to spend all sorts of time together, more than any valet would—he must _know_ Thomas is a nasty piece of work.”

                “Maybe he likes that. It could be beneficial for a blind man to keep on a schemer who sees everything…there may be more to his Lordship’s wounded bird than meets the eye.”

                Anna rolled her eyes. “I doubt it; Alfred seemed awfully keen. And it doesn’t answer the question of what Thomas sees in _him_.”

                “Something he likes more than power. People do change, you know.”

                “Not often,” Anna murmured, darkly. She looked up at John, her brow creased with worry. He wanted to smooth it away. “I don’t like it. I’m afraid he’ll come after you again.”

                “Have more faith in his Lordship,” John said, simply. “He’s in no mood to throw me over for a thief.”

                “I don’t think his Lordship is flighty, but I do think Thomas is sneaky,” Anna said, severely. “At least promise me you’ll watch your back.”

                “But why should I, when you’re already doing a much better job than I ever could?” John teased her. Anna couldn’t suppress a smile.

                “The gong will ring soon—best be finished with that before then.”

                “It wouldn’t do to be late—after all, I have to be at the top of my game, with a wolf prowling the house,” he said, with a wry smile. Anna didn’t return it.

                “Promise me,” she said, seriously. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

                John leaned over and planted a kiss on her forehead in lieu of an answer.

* * *

 

                “There’s the gong,” Robert said, as its sonorous tone reverberated throughout the library. “Rose had better being getting in from York right now, or she’ll be late for dinner.”         

                “Maybe she’s coming up with Cousin Isobel and Granny,” Cora offered.

                “Not without changing, she’s not, or Mama will have a fit,” Robert stood, “I suppose—“ he turned, and started. “Barrow? Is there a problem?”

                “No problem, your Lordship. I’ve just come to take Sir Courtenay up to change.”             

                “Thank you Barrow,” Sir Courtenay beamed. He stood, using his stick to steady himself, and held out an arm.

                “That’s rather prompt,” Mary said, raising an eyebrow.

                “He is terribly punctual,” Edward agreed, cheerfully. “I believe he learnt it here at Downton—I’m afraid our dinners don’t involve quite as much intricate clockwork.”

                “Indeed, sir,” Thomas replied, his voice carefully neutral. He put his hand on Edward’s arm, but Edward twined their arms together. Thomas winced—it was a slight thing, so small that no one would have noticed it unless they were watching.

                Matthew was. His eyes narrowed. Barrow’s eyes flashed about the small library, to see if anyone had noticed his slip-up, but no one had—except for him.

                “Well, I’m off—O’Brien will have to come collect _me_ if I dawdle,” Cora joked, and they began to split up. Matthew watched Edward and Thomas go, arm in arm, Edward’s cane lightly tapping against the carpet as they went.

                “I think I’ve got the general idea—“ he was saying to Thomas. “Its twenty- five steps to the hall, then thirty to the stairs…”

                “Very good, Sir,” Thomas replied, blandly. His voice sounded strained.

                “Darling?” That was Mary, at his elbow. “Is something the matter?”

                “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, giving himself a shake. “Nothing at all.”

* * *

 

                “I can’t believe I let you talk me into bringing white tie,” Edward complained, as Thomas was easing him into his stiff-collared shirt.

                “I’m sorry, Milord,” Thomas said, with false obsequiousness. “I must have misheard you, because what I could have sworn you _meant_ to say was ‘thanks ever so much, Thomas, for keeping old Lady Grantham from pissing and moaning about my state of undress all night’,” he finished in a mock-voice that sounded strangely like Daisy.

                “I’d rather wear a noose,” Edward complained, tugging at his collar. Thomas froze, his hands handing in midair of the final button. Edward sighed.

                “Still?”

                “Yes. Still. It’s not funny to me.”

                “Alright. I’m sorry,” Edward sighed. They were quite for a moment, Thomas going about his business while Edward fidgeted. Finally, the crushing silence was too much to bear for him: “Have you thought about making plans for tomorrow?”

                “Have you?” Edward could hear the eye roll in his voice. He frowned slightly.

                “Tom and Matthew have asked me to go with them on their rounds tomorrow.”

                “Have they?” Thomas asked. His fingers worked nimbly, knotting Edward’s tie with the ease of practice. “Fancy being a solicitor, then? Or pals with a chauffeur?”

                “Thomas,” Edward scolded. “You know perfectly well that Tom Branson is the land agent these days. You nearly laughed yourself sick when you got the letter.”

                “So what?”

                “So we’re going to go out and check up on the farms—Matthew’s worked out a strategy to make the transition to pig keeping go smoothly…”

                “Mmm. Fascinating,” Thomas remarked. He sounded like he might die of boredom.

                “The point is, I was thinking you could make a day of it.” Thomas stopped again, eying Edward warily. “Take some time for yourself, catch up with friends…” Edward trailed off, hopefully.

                “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t _have_ any friends here before you listen to me?” Thomas asked, sharply. Edward shrugged.

                “I don’t believe that, but have it your way—go into the village, then. I’m sure—”

                “I don’t _want_ to go to the village,” Thomas said, briskly. “If you’re going out, I’m going with you.”

                “I can manage by myself. I’ve told you before that you should really think about having some time to yourself—“

                “Why are you so determined to be rid of me?” the words exploded of out Thomas’ mouth. Edward pulled back out of his grasp, shocked.

                “I’m not _trying_ to get rid of you.” He was the picture of exasperation. “I want you to have a holiday!”

                “Well, you didn’t ask me, and I don’t particularly want one.” Thomas’ words had a bite to them. “I’m going with you, that’s final.”

                “Oh? Is that so?” Edward asked, matching Thomas’ tone. “Are you giving me orders now?”

                “What if I was?” Thomas asked. There was a hard edge to his voice.

                “You’re not my nanny, Thomas. I can go where I please!” Edward snapped back There was a tense moment of silence between them. It was Edward who broke it.

                “I don’t know why you’re being difficult,” he muttered. “I can’t think of any man I know who starts a shouting match over a day off.” Edward titled his head, still irritated, but in a lower tone: “I’m only trying to do something for you.”

                “Why?”

                “Because I love you, stupid, why else?” Edward rolled his eyes. “Really Thomas, don’t be thick.” Thomas didn’t answer. Edward’s face fell.

                “You’re upset with me,” he said, quietly.

                “Yes I blood well am! You’re trying to get rid of me!” Thomas repeated.

                “I don’t know why you keep saying that when I’m _not_ —“

                “Then why do you keep trying to send me off somewhere?” Thomas demanded. “Why don’t you want me around?”

                Edward’s expression melted. “Thomas,” he said, quietly.  “It’s not—I don’t want you _gone_. How could you ever think that?” he reached out his hand, apologetically, and Thomas reluctantly took it. Edward pulled him in close, reaching up and laying a hand against his face. “But we spend every waking moment together—then you climb into bed with me at night. That’s every second of your life by my side. One day—“ he swallowed, “one day, you’ll be sick of me—and you’ll be sick of _caring_ for me—“

                “You’re the stupid one,” Thomas interrupted him. Edward started to make an angry noise of protest, but Thomas interrupted again—“I’m going to kiss you—“ and did just that, stepping up on his toes so he could brush his lips against Edward’s forehead. “How could I ever be sick of you, daft man?”

                “No two people in the world love each other enough to spend every single moment together,” Edward said, quietly. “And you—living as my servant—it’s not _right_ —“

                “We talked about this when we began,” Thomas said, cutting in again. “We’re _safe_ this way, Edward. No one will ever suspect.” He rubbed small circles on Edward’s hand with his thumb. “I never dreamed I’d get to do this job for someone I loved—that I could walk down the street arm and arm with another man and no one would turn their head.”

                Edward drew back. “You love the game,” he said, bitterly.

                “No—yes—you’re not hearing me. I love _you_. I love _being_ with you. It was you—all of you— I fell in love with before anything else. If I could give you your sight back I would—I would have done it the moment I laid eyes on you at the hospital, even if it meant we never would have met, that you would have left me behind. But you’re the one who told me you didn’t want to live in the past, trapped in the might-have-beens,” Thomas took a deep breath. “I like my life just the way it is.”

                Edward smiled. “You’re a romantic at heart,” he said, but his voice betrayed the depth of the feeling beneath his words.

                “I’m no such thing,” Thomas scoffed. Edward smiled, fondly, but fell back into a worried expression.

                “You understand though, why I’ll always try to be my own man?” he asked. “To live as independently as I can?”

                “I do,” Thomas said. “You’re too proud for your own good, yes, but—I do understand not wanting to live with being beholden to any man—better than most.”

                “So you’ll stop throwing fits when I want to go out for a walk on my own?” Edward said, half-teasing, half-serious. Thomas huffed.

                “It’s icy out, you don’t know the grounds, and I’m not keen to be left with Carson—“

                “Well, if that’s how you feel about it,” Edward said, then leaned until his nose bumped against Thomas’s. They kissed for a long moment, before Edward broke it by drawing back. “But I worry about you,” he said, sighed.

                “Me? Why?”

                “I can’t be the only person in your life, Thomas, even if you think you want it that way—it’s not healthy.”

                “Not this again—“

                “Just hear me out,” Edward said, “You’re the center of my whole life, you know—but I’ve also got the men from my squadron, and mates from class, the team…even if you don’t get sick of me, I worry about you…your entire life shouldn’t revolve around me.”

                “What if I want it to?” Thomas asked, sulkily. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

                Edward smiled, sadly. “I only want for you to be happy. I won’t fight with you, if you really feel that way, but for now…say you’ll try? If only for me?”

                Thomas caved. “I’ll think about it,” he said. He brushed a stray lock of hair from Edward’s forehead. “But I’m not about to be chummy with Saint Bates and his virtuous bride down there.”

                “Heaven forbid,” Edward murmured, with a roll of his eyes.

* * *

 

                Matthew walked away from the door, red-faced—his embarrassment with himself for eavesdropping was far outweighed by his concern from the conversation he’d overheard…

                _Are you giving me orders now?_

_What if I was?_

                He wasn’t about to pretend he was any expert in the realm of valets—it was only at Robert’s insistence that he let Mosely pop in his cufflinks every morning. But he knew that Barrow’s words were far, far afield from anything resembling appropriate behavior between master and servant.

                _I’m going with you, that’s final_

                Matthew wasn’t as fond of feudalism as Robert, certainly and nowhere near as keen on it as Carson. He didn’t much care if Courtenay retained the services of a man inclined to back-talk, or one who fancied himself some kind of tyrannical nanny.

                But even so…

                Matthew couldn’t say he knew Barrow all that well—he’d only really noticed him a handful of times in the years leading up to the war, and he’d never had an actually _conversation_ with the man before their chance encounter in the trenches. But he’d heard plenty, and none of it was good. Barrow, as he understood, was scheming, conniving, and self-obsessed bordering on narcissism. The way Anna told it, he could be vicious when backed into a corner—or whenever the mood struck him. Even so, Mathew was disinclined to make a fuss about it—it really wasn’t his business. Courtenay presumably knew what he was getting into when he took the man on.

                Or did he?

                Matthew’s thoughts swirled, his brain conjuring up darker and darker scenarios—Barrow, having found the perfect mark, devoted himself to playing the role of dutiful aide in public while getting god-knows-what from his employer behind closed doors. Money? Connections? It didn’t matter—no one would know. The two of them, living on the other side of the country and out of contact with Edward’s family, not even another full-time servant in the house to bear witness.

                It was a disturbing thought.

                Still, he’d studied law long enough to know that a hunch and half a conversation wasn’t enough to indict a man. He shook himself and made for the staircase, resolving to meet with Robert after dinner if anything seemed amiss.

 _I’d so love to be wrong_ …

                Unfortunately, he seldom was.

* * *

 

                Rose was thirty minutes late for the gong. She raced up the stairs like her life depended on it, shouting “Don’t wait up!”, and blew past poor Edward without realizing he was there. Violet and Isobel arrived promptly at five till eight, wrapped tightly against the cold. Carson showed them into the drawing room, where the family (except Rose, who was cutting it pretty fine) was already gathered.

                “The Dowager Countess and Mrs. Crawley,” he announced, and the crowd turned. Isobel’s face lit up at the sight of Robert’s mystery guest.

                “Gracious! It’s you!” she said.

                “It’s who?” Violet asked, turning to her curiously. She turned, and blurted out a muted ‘Gracious!’ of her own when she took in Edward’s scars and milky eyes.

                “Mama,” Robert said, with a note of warning in his voice. “This is our _guest_ , Sir Edward Courtenay. You remember I told you one of Sybil’s friends was staying.”

                “Indeed you did,” Violet said, recovering with the speed brought on by good breeding. “I must say, you don’t look quite _wild_ enough to be one of Sybil’s compatriots.”

                “That’s because she knew him during the war,” Isobel said, matter-of-factly. “I don’t suppose you remember me, do you, Lieutenant?”

                Edward had gone rather pale. “I—of course I do,” he said, shakily. “The other Nurse Crawley.” He smiled, but there was something nervous about it. “I should have realized you would be here—I’m afraid I didn’t put two and two together.”

                “That’s quite alright,” she said, warmly. “I must say, it is so good to see you again—to see you looking so _well_.” She put particularly emphasis on the last word, as though it were pregnant with some hidden meaning. Edward gave her another quick, uneasy smile.

                “Thank you, Mrs. Crawley—“

                “None of that! You must call me Isobel,” she declared. “It’s good to see you as well, Barrow— no troubles with the hand, I take it?”

                Thomas started from where he hovered, near the door, waiting to take Edward to his seat at dinner. “It’s fiddly in the damp, mum,” he replied, “but I do alright.”

                “Well, that’s good to hear. I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to since the war’s been over.”

                “And so you shall,” Robert said. “Ah, here’s Carson—“ Carson appeared, stately as ever, and opened his mouth—only to be interrupted by Rose rushing into the room, taking her place by the fire as though she’d meant to come sprinting in.

                “I’m not technically late,” she said, breathlessly. Violet sighed.

                “Dinner,” Carson announced, with a mild note of disapproval, “is served. Milord?”

                “Yes, thank you Carson,” Robert said. “Let’s make our way in. Thomas glided to Edward’s side, doing his best to remain totally inconspicuous. Edward grasped his arm a little tighter than perhaps was necessary, and they hung back slightly behind the crowd.

                “I didn’t realize she’d be here,” Edward whispered. He rubbed a thumb along his wrist, to the scars concealed by his starched cuffs.

                “Mrs. Crawley’s alright, her and Mr. Matthew both,” Thomas murmured back. “She won’t tell. She probably won’t even bring it up.”

                “I hope so,” Edward sighed. Thomas looked up and noticed Rose was watching them with veiled curiosity. Thomas gave Edward’s arm a light squeeze and quickened his place.

                In the dining room, Thomas pulled out Edward’s chair and allowed him to settle into it. He pretended to ignore how everyone stared (while all pretending in turn that they weren’t staring), curious as Edward used his splayed hands to acquaint himself with the table settings—the edge of the table, the silverware, his plate, the three glasses. Everything was laid out as Thomas had specified, and he smiled. He found his napkin and laid it in his lap without a hitch.

                 “Thank you, Barrow,” he said. “You may go.”

                Thomas brushed his hand across Edward’s shoulder—lightly, swiftly enough that it could have been an accident—before taking his leave. When Edith and Rosamund came in from London he’d be asked to serve as a third footman, but tonight he was no longer needed. Matthew watched him go with narrowed eyes.

                “So, Sir Edward,” Rose began, leaning in, “I’m afraid I’ve never quite gotten the whole story—how is it you know Cousin Robert, again?”

* * *

 

                It was an eerie feeling, being at Downton—he’d only been back a few hours, but it felt as though he’d never left at all. His feet took the familiar route out of the dining room, through the servery and down the back the back stairs as though it were ten years ago, and he’d just been hired as a junior footman…

                His hopes of a quick cup of tea downstairs before sneaking back to spy on the proceeding at dinner where shattered by the sight of Sarah O’Brien, sitting at the servant’s hall table with a piece of mending in hand. Thomas stood in the doorway, frozen, as they eyed each other up. He hadn’t seen her since he’d gone to Farley Hall—three years ago, now. She looked the same as ever— maybe a little more worn and a little more angry, but more or less the same.

                “Miss O’Brien,” he said, mouth dry. If there were anyone in the house who could find him out, it was her. He had to be wary.

                “Mr. Barrow,” she replied, coolly. She was impossible to read, even after years of partnership. She cocked her head. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

                “I’ve been busy, it’s not the same thing.”

                “Too busy for old pals?”

                He shrugged. “You know the life.”

                She seemed to be weighing his answer, like one of Lord Grantham’s ghastly Egyptian gods with a feather and a heart. She tilted her head back, eyes boring in him.

                “Fancy a smoke?” she asked, finally. Thomas smiled.

                “Dying for one,” he replied. “Shall we?”

* * *

 

                Back upstairs, Edward was fielding questions with as much good cheer as he could muster.

                “So what brings you to York?” Mary asked. “It’s nice to meet a southerner with taste, of course, but you’re quite a long way from Devon.”

                Edward smiled, but it was strained. “My studies.”

                “Edward’s an Oxford man,” Robert commented. Matthew made a noise of jocular disdain.

                “Matthew, don’t be rude,” Isobel scolded.

                “I’m afraid I must. It would be a slight the honor of Cambridge if I wasn’t.”

                “Ah _ha_ ,” Edward said, “I thought I sensed an air of self-importance.” Matthew laughed at the good natured barb. “But I’m willing to make peace—I’m not at Oxford anymore.” He hadn’t ever _wanted_ to be—he’d only gone out of sense of obligation—but somehow saying the words still brought up the ghost of an old wound, a feeling of failure. Edward pushed that feeling down, smothering it as he had so many times before. “The Royal York College for the Blind had an equivalent program. I just finished my first semester.”

                “And what is it you’re studying?” Cora asked.

                “Classics—I just finished a paper about Roman burial inscriptions and their understanding of the afterlife.” Edward took a moment to cut himself another piece of fish, carefully—even more carefully than when he dined with Thomas—bring it to his mouth before replacing his cutlery. He got the sense that he was no longer being watched with fascination with every bite. You could have heard a pin drop the first time he’d reached for his wine glass.

                “Oh? I didn’t know that,” Robert sounded genuinely intrigued. “I find the ancient world _terribly_ fascinating.”

                “Oh, now you’ve done it,” Mary said, waspishly. “We’ll be hearing of nothing but Egypt the whole evening. Papa is _mad_ for it.”

                “I am not!” he muttered, indignantly.

                “Dear,” Cora said, gently, “our dog is named Isis.”

                “It _is_ fascinating,” Edward agreed, after another bite. “I can’t say I’m as familiar with Egyptology, but it’s interesting nonetheless.”

                “But the Romans left ruins closer to home,” Branson said. “It’s much more convenient to study, I’d imagine.”

                “It certainly is. I actually wrote about a gravesite just outside York.”

                “Your studies must keep you terribly busy,” Rose said. “I don’t envy you.” Edward shrugged.

                “It’s quite a bit of reading, but I can just about manage it.”

                “And how do you?” the table went still at Violet’s question. “Manage, that is?”

                “Oh, darling Granny—“ Mary started, false fondness masking exasperation. Edward finished his wine, hoping Alfred would remember his tip and convince the butler to top him off—and _soon_.

                “It’s alright,” he said, trying to keep his own irritation in check. If he answered the question quickly, they’d move on to another subject and he could escape a fate as the dinnertime _curiosity_. “The college has quite a library of books in braille. I had to learn it before I could enroll.”

                “It must have been terribly difficult,” Cora said, perhaps slightly louder than was necessary, trying to cover what sounded like Mary hurriedly explaining braille to Violet (“You know, the little bumps that make words you put them together—Granny, surely you’ve heard of _braille_ , don’t be obtuse—“)

                "A bit. It took nearly a year and a half to learn. If Thomas wasn’t always scolding me, I probably wouldn’t have.” Edward took another bite, not noticing the confused glances around the table at his use of Thomas’ Christian name. “There’s still quite a few journals and such that aren’t available in braille, and he reads those aloud to me. I think he was grateful to have his workload halved,” Edward smiled, fondly. Unbeknownst to him, Matthew’s expression turned stormy.

                “That does seem a little above a valet’s capabilities,” Cora said, “surely the college could spare you a tutor? Wouldn’t that be easier?” Edward shook his head.

                “Not at all. Thomas picks it up marvelously quick. The Greek is beyond him, I’m afraid, but he’s actually taught himself a fair amount of Latin. He’s an avid reader—he just finished the Odyssey, but he much prefers the Iliad…”

                “He would, wouldn’t he?” Violet asked, with a hint of amusement.  “Barrow is such a great admirer of the Greeks and their customs.” Edward stiffened.

                “I myself am a great admirer of Homer these days,” he said, with false cheeriness. “I find I have—a newfound respect for his work, I suppose you could say.”

                The table murmured in sympathetic agreement, and Edward breathed slightly easier. The last thing he needed was everyone to start pondering the _exact_ nature of Achilles and Patroclus’ great, tragic love for one another…

                _I must stop talking about Thomas_.

                “Robert,” he said, hoping to change the subject quickly, “I understand you have a rather marvelous library of your own here at Downton…”

* * *

 

                “You don’t write as much,” O’Brien remarked, settling herself against the wall. Thomas offered her his lighter and she took it, but her cold stare never left his face.

                “I’ve got a lot on my plate,” he said, trying to remain nonchalant. “It’s just me handling things in the house, more often than not.”

                “Thought you would’ve been rid of Mr. Rochester up there by now,” O’Brien admitted.

                “Don’t call him that,” Thomas said, automatically, then snapped his mouth shut. O’Brien blew out a long stream of smoke.

                “Blimey. He’s got you _housebroken_ ,” she said, flatly.

                “I am not,” Thomas muttered, sullenly. “He just doesn’t deserve it, is all. It’s not a bad set-up.”

                “Suppose not,” O’Brien said. “I can see that there might be advantages. I’m sure he’s much easier to handle than His Lordship would have been—he’s only figuratively blind.” Thomas stomach churned at the idea of Edward ever being _handled_ by anyone—of taking the trust between them and _twisting_ it that way— but he’d learned well from his time under Carson, and kept his face molded in an expression of mild disinterest.

                “We do alright, him and me.”

                “I suppose you do… though I didn’t think you cared much for the delicate-looking ones,” O’Brien flicked her ash with careless movement and raised an eyebrow at him. Thomas felt his blood run cold.

                “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Miss O’Brien.”

                “Sure you don’t. You can’t be picky about the scars, not with your hand the way it is. There’s not a man your age without some token from the war.”

                “I’ll be sure to take that advice under consideration,” Thomas shot back, with a roll of his eyes. O’Brien wasn’t impressed.

                “Fine. Have it your own way.” There was a pause, both of them taking long drags and exhaling clouds of smoke, thickened by the chill in the air. “You’re quiet. Is gossip beneath you these days?”

                “Not much to say, really,” Thomas shrugged. “The hours are long, the pay’s a joke. You know how it is. Not much point in re-hashing. What’s new here, then?”

                “More of the same,” O’Brien admitted. “Alfred’s coming along very nicely.”

                “The giant?” Thomas asked, raising an eyebrow. O’Brien glared.

                “My nephew. He’s sister’s boy.”

                “ _That’s_ the nephew? Who’s his father, a giraffe?”

                “He’s on his way to first footman,” O’Brien said, pretending she hadn’t heard. “I’ll have Mosely dealt with and he’ll be a valet before summer, mark my words.”             

                “You don’t let the grass grow. First footman to valet in a few months—what’s next, Prime Minister?”

                “He’s a good lad,” O’Brien said, her expression hardening. “He deserves it. He’ll know what to do with Matthew Crawley—“

                “And then you’ll rule the roost, is that it?” Thomas asked, eyebrow raised.

                “Dunno where you get off acting all high and mighty about it, it’s what you were after before you ran off to play Florence Nightingale,” O’Brien shot back. “Alfred didn’t feel the need to pick up his toys and run home early, neither.”

                “Then he’s an idiot,” Thomas snapped, resisting the urge to rub his hand.  

                “What’d you tell them? Careless with a smoke? Is that what you told Sir Edward up there?” O’Brien’s lip turned up in a sneer. “Does he know that when he was off getting himself martyred, you were crying to Dr. Clarkson to go home—?”

                “I don’t have to listen to this,” Thomas said, abruptly.  He threw his cigarette down and ground it beneath his heel. “I’m—“

                “You think you’re too good for all of this now, but you’re _not_ ,” O’Brien said. Her voice was level, but here was something in her eyes—something burning. “You’re not better than me now you’ve thrown me over to play nursemaid.”

                Thomas’ hands were shaking. He felt the blood run out of his face. He stalked towards O’Brien, towering over her—but she didn’t flinch. She just stared up at him, chin titled in defiance, daring him to make a move.

                “You think you’re going to win,” he said, his voice wavering. “You think this is all a big game and you’re going to take home the prize. But you could be bloody Countess of Grantham and you’d never actually be _happy_.”  There was a flicker of movement—her eyes widened, her lips parted slightly—but then it was gone, her mask back in place. He leaned in closer, fists clenched so hard it caused the leather of his glove to creak.

                “Stay _away_ from me. Stay away from _Edward_ ,” he ground out, “or I’ll make your little schemes come crashing down, I swear it.”

                O’Brien took a long drag of her cigarette, blowing the smoke directly in his face. His eyes watered, but he didn’t back down. “ ‘Edward’, is it?” she said, and his blood ran cold. “That’s interesting. That’s _very_ interesting.”

                He’d made a grievous mistake—one that could cost him everything. He couldn’t afford make any more slip-ups, so he opted for retreat—turning on his heel and marching back down the stairs, slamming the door behind him.

                The weight of O’Brien’s stare seemed to follow him all the way back inside.

* * *

 

                Rose was finishing off her tale of misadventure in York this afternoon—including her incredible difficulty in getting a cab and her mad dash for the train, which had the whole family in stitches and cries of “Rose, _really_!”. Edward laughed with them, feeling much more at ease than he had been. Maybe the wine was going to his head, but he felt himself relaxing in a way he hadn’t in a long time around strangers—around anyone but Thomas, really.

                “What about you, Edward?” Matthew asked, as the laughter died down. “Do you get out into York much? Mary and I were thinking about taking a day trip.”

                “Were we?” Mary asked, under her breath, and Matthew squeezed her leg under the table.

                Edward shook his head. “Not so much, I’m afraid,” he said. “I was studying night and day during exams, and before that the team took up most of my extra-curricular time.”

                “The team?” Branson asked, curiously.

                “Ah, yes—Edward felt himself flush a little. “This is the first year the college has had a cricket team.”

                “Cricket! Really?” rather than confused or suspicious, as most people were, Robert sounded delighted. “Golly, that’s something!”

                “You’ve found the one thing Papa adores more than Egypt—quite impressive,” Mary said. “Carson, do you think you could top me off?”

                “I didn’t know there were cricket games in York, or I’d nip up there myself,” Robert said. “Though…” he trailed off, the question evident in his voice.

                “The rules are slightly different,” Edward said, to the unasked question. “It was the children at the Yorkshire School for the Blind who started playing it first—they have a hollow ball that rattles—“

                “I say! That’s rather clever, actually,” Robert said. “Are they any good?”

                “Robert!” Cora was scandalized, but Edward laughed at his frankness.

                “They’re actually quite good. It’s a bit embarrassing, really, to be beaten so soundly by grade-schoolers.”  

                “Well, you’ve only just started,” Robert said. “You’ll get the hang of it, I’m sure.”

                “If the chaps at the Queen Alexandra College form a team, we’ll actually have someone to play against. Usually we just scrimmage with some of the Yorkshire School graduates who live in the area.”

                “Marvelous,” Robert said. “Perfectly marvelous. What a cunning idea! They really do think of everything, these days. You’ll tell us when the first match is, of course?”

                “Papa, you can’t just invite yourself to other people’s cricket matches,” Mary said, with a hint of despair in her voice.

                “I—I’ll be sure to let you know,” Edward said, stunned. Before, he’d dreaded the idea of spectators—people coming to gawk at him like he was a dancing bear, invading the one place where he felt _free_ again. But Robert seemed so genuinely enthused to see cricket played, no matter how or what kind…

                Dinner went on quite smoothly from there. He needn’t have worried about any awkwardness. At the first course he heard a soft “Sir, this is Alfred,” at his right, announcing “this course is a vol-au-vent pastry stuffed with roast chicken, oyster mushrooms and black truffle, would you care for one…?” The process was repeated at every course, either Alfred or his companion James (who had tried to announce himself as Jimmy, only to but cut down by the rather fearsome-sounding butler Carson) murmuring the course in his ear before receiving permission to gently ladle a serving on his plate.

                _I suppose my investment is paying off_ , Edward mused. He immediately scolded himself for thinking such uncharitable thoughts—all the staff here were professionals, and Alfred seemed like a decent lad. He was letting Thomas’ pessimism rub off on him, it seemed.

                “Well, I think we’ll go through,” Cora said, and Edward heard the soft sound of her chair being pushed back and she stood from the table. “We’ll leave you to it.”

                “Excellent,” Robert said, “Carson, could you bring the cigars? Edward, can I tempt you…?”

                There was a sound like even _more_ wine being poured, and Edward winced. He’d had far more than he’d really meant to, and he would pay for it if he indulged any further. “Actually,” he said, “would it be terribly rude of me if I went up early tonight? I’m—I’m afraid I’m terribly tired. After traveling today, and with our planned outing tomorrow….”

                “Of course it wouldn’t,” Robert said, quickly. “You must watch out for your health, after all.”

                Edward smiled with relief. “I’ll be a much better sport tomorrow, I promise.” He said, standing. He heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and turned. “Is that Carson?”

                “Ah—it is indeed, Sir Courtenay,” the man rumbled.

                “I’m glad. I wanted to thank you—you and Lord Grantham both—for dinner. I truly appreciate how generous and accommodating you have been.”

                “Please,” Robert said, “think nothing of it.”

                “Even so, your staff have risen to the occasion in a truly exemplary way. I am grateful.”

                “It is an honor and a privilege on our part, Sir Courtenay” Carson rumbled, “nothing less.” Edward smiled. He really was just as stuffy as Thomas had said—but he seemed nice enough, in his own antiquated manner. “Shall I summon Barrow for you, Sir?”

                “No need, Mr. Carson,” Edward couldn’t stop himself from perking up slightly at Thomas’ voice—even as he realized, to his chagrin, that Thomas must have been lurking for some time, waiting on him to finish his leisurely meal. “I’m right here.”

                “Excellent,” Edward beamed, holding out his arm. Thomas took it, and the smell of stale cigarettes and brisk night air filled his nose. “Good night, everyone—until tomorrow.”

                “Until tomorrow,” Matthew murmured, and Edward tried not to lean too much into Thomas as they made their way out of the dining room—

                --and tried to mask his hurt puzzlement when Thomas pulled back from his touch.

* * *

 

                “Well,” Tom said, eyebrows raised, as the butler and footman cleared the dining room at last. “Your guest certainly knows the way to Carson’s heart.” Carson, unbeknownst to Edward, had puffed out his chest like he’d received a medal from the king, and left the dining room with an air of great satisfaction.

                “He’s a splendid chap,” Robert said, cheerily, taking a sip of port. “I’m already hoping to have him back next year—maybe for Easter, if it can be done.” He looked back and forth between Matthew and Tom. “Though if Edward is headed up, I don’t see why we shouldn’t go through with the ladies—“                

                “Wait.” That was Matthew, looking uncharacteristically serious. “I was rather hoping I could have a private word with you,” he said, looking at Robert with an unreadable expression. Tom glanced between the two of them.

                “Should I go?”

                “No, no, only if you want to.” Matthew leaned over and took a cigar, striking a match and lighting it with practiced ease. “You see…” he started, than trailed off. “What do you we know about Edward’s man, Barrow?”

                Robert raised an eyebrow. “Surely you remember Barrow. He was a footman in this house before the war.”

                “I remember,” Matthew said, with a hint of impatience in his voice. “But you see, I don’t really _know_ him. I don’t think I had ever spoken more than two words with him before I ran into him in the trenches. I want to know what _you_ know of him.”

                Robert shrugged. “He filled in as my valet after old Watson took off but before Bates got here. He was rather keen for the job, but too young—too inexperienced.” Robert sat back, taking a long drag of his own cigar. “I don’t think he was particularly admired downstairs.”

                Tom scoffed. “That’s the understatement of the century,” he muttered. Matthew and Robert both turned to him, and Tom looked wary.

                “Go on,” Matthew said, encouragingly. Tom’s eyes flicked to Robert, as though trying to gauge how badly he would take it if suddenly reminded his son-in-law had once been the chauffer. He sighed, and relented:

                “Thomas is a right bastard, if you’ll pardon my language. He was the meanest little prick I’d ever set eyes on. He’s got ice in his veins--cold as a landlord’s heart—“

                “Careful, Tom,” Robert said, but he sounded just as amused as insulted.  

                “Ah, sorry—present company excluded, of course,” Tom said, hurriedly. “In any case, we weren’t sorry to see the back of him when he went off to the war, and it proves there’s no sense in this world that he made it through and William didn’t.”

                “Poor William,” Robert said, automatically, but he was thinking about the eerily similar turn of phrase Barrow had used in his condolence letter.

                “—but that’s about it really. I don’t know much else. Why does it matter?”

                Matthew considered his cigar, pursing his lips. “I don’t know. I suppose now, it seems a bit—paranoid, of me, really…” He puffed, trying to compose his words. “But Edward is quite—quite fond of Barrow, is he not?”

                “I would imagine he has to be,” Robert s said. “I don’t think I could rely on a man that much unless I was fond of him. Otherwise I’d come to resent the fact that he could see and I could not.”

                “I suppose your right,” Matthew said. “But…I can only wonder whether or not Barrow feels similarly.” Robert’s brow furrowed, and Mathew plunged forward: “I mean, he seems strangely—repulsed, whenever Edward takes his arm.”

                “I hadn’t noticed,” Robert said, though that wasn’t quite true.

                “Perhaps it’s nothing. But you must admit, it seems strange for a man to Thomas’ character to have taken a job as thankless as that one, for no conceivable reward.”

                “I’d hardly call it _thankless_ —“ Robert began, heatedly, but Matthew raised his hand.

                “Please, hear me out.” He licked his lips, nervously, as though he was weighing his words with care. “I know—when I lost the use of my legs, and I felt like less of a man…” Matthew trailed off. “Well. I know what it is, to become accustomed to the idea of a life lived with assistance. It is…a vulnerable place to be. There is—a trust, between you and the people who have put you on the path to getting your life back.”

                “I don’t follow,” Robert said, shaking his head.

                “What I’m saying is this—I’m afraid I…I overheard something that made me feel as though Barrow may be unworthy of that trust.”

                Robert’s expression became stormy. Tom set his drink down and leaned in, now deeply concerned. Matthew quickly explained to them the brief conversation he’d overheard earlier that evening.

                “It could be nothing,” Robert said, “I suppose a valet can grow as fussy as a nanny, given enough leeway, but we have no reason to believe he couldn’t be put back in his place.”

                “Are you sure?” Matthew asked, a challenge in his voice. “Edward lives alone, with only a foreign cook and some cleaning girls who only see him occasionally. He doesn’t talk much about having his school friends over. His family—“

                “We have more reason to believe his family is more concerned with his welfare than Barrow,” Robert said.

                “Because they’re not in touch? Barrow could be taking those letters, and Edward would never know. Barrow has his entire life in his hands—where he goes, what he does, what he _sees_ , so to speak!” Matthew took a calming breath. “Which brings me back to the question—for what reason would an ambitious man like Thomas might take a middling job so seemingly unsuited to him…? It doesn’t make sense—Unless he thought he could work it to his advantage.”

                Robert opened his mouth, then shut it again. He grimaced.

                “Barrow…is a thief,” he admitted.  Matthew and Tom both turned to him. “I hadn’t thought about it in years, but—it came out that he’d been taking more than a few bottles of wine from the cellar. If he hadn’t left for the army the moment he did, he was going to get the sack.”

                “Why didn’t he?” Tom asked, flabbergasted. Robert raised an eyebrow.

                “The same reason you didn’t when you drove my youngest daughter to a riot,” he said, dryly. “Carson says I’m too soft.”

                “Why didn’t you say anything?” Matthew asked. Robert gestured with his cigar.

                “He’d only taken some of the wine—I didn’t feel particularly charitable towards him, it’s true, but I wasn’t ready to ruin his life for it. Going to court for a few bottles seemed more effort than it was worth. Then he went to the army, and if I thought if anything would shape him up, that might...it was all very _tidy_. It seemed as though the problem had been taken off my hands.” Robert took a long drag on his cigar, looking deeply troubled. “But now you’re saying I allowed a serpent to slither his way into an even more vulnerable garden.” He looked deeply troubled, and there was silence around the table as they smoked and contemplated the troubling revelations.    

                “I’m no friend of Thomas,” Tom started, looking between Robert and Matthew, “but do you really think he’s _capable_ of that?”

                “You’re the one who said he was the devil incarnate.” Matthew said, raising an eyebrow.

                “Well, sure, but not—“ Tom stopped, frustrated. “What I mean is, he’s been doing this for _years_. Surely there would have been some trouble before now?”

                “Would there have been?” Robert asked. “You know him better than either of us.”

                Tom took a deep breath, thinking back. “I don’t like the man,” he said, finally. “And I wouldn’t trust him any further than I can throw him. But I really don’t know that he’s capable of what you’re saying—oh, he’s twisted enough, sure, and he’s wily enough to have at least _considered_ something like it. But Thomas just doesn’t have the _patience_ for this kind of thing.”

                “How do you mean?” Robert asked.  Tom shrugged.

                “Well, they met at the village hospital, before the house was taking officers—that’s what, three years ago?” Tom shook his head again. “The Thomas I knew could hardly wait three days for one of his schemes to bear fruit. Now, if it were Miss O’Brien we were talking about, I’d already be halfway to the police station by now, mark my words. She and Thomas made a nasty pair—all the nastier for their combined strengths. Thomas needed her to be the voice of reason, the method to their madness…”

                “They’ve been writing to each other,” Robert said. “Cora used to tell me about O’Brien’s updates on Thomas at the front. Could she have advised him that way?” Tom shook his head.

                “I think they’ve fallen out, to be honest. She wasn’t happy when he came back from the war and didn’t want to be her partner in crime anymore—actually, now that I think about it, she was _livid_ when he took off for Farley Hall without so much as a by-your-leave—“

                “That’s another thing, though,” Matthew broke in. “This business with Farley Hall. What are the odds that Barrow receives a transfer out of the blue to the very same convalescent home Edward was relocated to? For no apparent reason? And why are they both so cagey about Edward leaving the hospital? There’s something wrong here, mark my words.”

                Robert set his cigar down, picking up his glass and staring into it. “I don’t want to believe it,” he said, sadly.

                “Neither do I,” Matthew replied. “And I could still be wrong—but there are enough pieces here to make half of a troubling picture.”

                “I agree,” Tom said, “it could be nothing—but if there is something, we can’t let it go on.” He titled his head back, blowing a perfect ring of smoke. “Here’s what will do—tomorrow, we’ll have the perfect opportunity to get Edward alone and see if _he_ thinks there’s something wrong.”

                Matthew shook his head. “Barrow will be coming with us, I’m sure of it.”

                “Even better. We haven’t seen them together for more than a few moments. I’m sure we could find some way to get Edward alone, if we feel it’s necessary.”

                Robert’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “I don’t like it. I can’t help but feel we’re conspiring against the man.”

                “It’s the only way to know if he truly needs our help while sparing his pride,” Matthew pointed out. “Surely you don’t want to leave him in the lurch.”

                Robert sighed. “No. You’re right. Conspiracy it is, then.” He pushed himself away from the table, all the cheer of dinner now gone.

                “We’re only doing this to help,” Tom said, encouragingly. “He’ll be better off for it.”

                “I know,” Robert sighed. “I just wish there was no need for it in the first place, is all.”

* * *

 

                “Thomas,” Edward said, grabbing his arm in a vice-like grip. “Stop. Stop right now.”

                They were nearly back to their rooms. Thomas looked back and forth in alarm, scanning the hallway for eavesdroppers. “Is something the matter, sir?”

                “You know it is!” Edward whispered fiercely. “Are you really that upset with me?”

                “I don’t know what you mean—“

                “Stop pulling away!”

                Thomas met Edward’s hand, bringing it in close. “Wait until we’re inside,” he whispered, pulling them both into their room. He gave the hallway one last once-over before pulling the door closed and locking it.

                “I know you’re upset with me,” Edward started, arms folded across his chest, “but don’t—don’t shut me out. If you want to leave—“

                “No,” Thomas said quickly. “It’s not—it’s not that.”

                “Then what?” Edward asked, exasperated. “I can’t—I can’t bear it if you started treating me like—like you were one of the _nurses_ —”

                “No,” Thomas said, sharply. “No, I—I didn’t mean it, I swear I didn’t...”

                “Then what? What is it? What have I done?”

                “It’s not you,” Thomas reached up, laying his palm against the side of Edward’s face. Edward startled at the sudden touch, but leaned into it. “God, you know that.”

                “I don’t. Not always.” Edward managed to fix his unseeing eyes on Thomas’ face, as though he could read what was happening in his expression. “What, then?”

                “It’s this place,” Thomas sighed. “You don’t—there are eyes everywhere. Ears, too. You _have_ to be more careful.  We can’t look as though we’re…together.”

                Edward huffed, exasperated. “Is that what this is about? Thomas, you mustn’t be _paranoid_ —“

                “I’m not paranoid,” Thomas snapped, in a strangled voice. “Listen to me—there are no secrets at Downton Abbey. Trust me, I _know_. I—I used to be the one who went around digging them up.”

                 Edward rolled his eyes. “Well, if you’re not at it anymore, what do we have to worry about—?”

                “Not everyone you meet is a friend, Edward,” Thomas said, harshly. “Not—when you’re like me. Like us.”

                “We don’t have enemies here,” Edward said, firmly. He groped, searching for Thomas’ hands and wrapped his fingers around them. “You don’t have to be looking over your shoulder all the time.”    

                “Yes I do,” Thomas said, firmly. “For both our sakes, I do.”

                Edward looked at him sadly, stroking Thomas’ hand with his thumb. “I don’t want you to be miserable. We can—”

                “No,” Thomas said, abruptly. “We can’t leave. I know…I know how happy this makes you. I can make it a week or so.”

                “At least tell me what brought this on,” Edward said. “Maybe I can do something about it?”

                Thomas considered it, for a moment—telling Edward about how Robert Crawley had never liked him, thrown him over for a smug cripple, seen through him from the start. How Carson’s beady eyes would be on him every second he was downstairs, hoping to find some reason to throw him out. About O’Brien, and how she knew _everything_ …

                “Let’s go to bed,” he said, finally. “It will be better tomorrow, being out of the house.” He tried to withdraw his hand from Edward’s grasp, but Edward squeezed harder.

                “Are you certain?” he asked. Thomas couldn’t help but smile.

                “Quite,” he said, softly. “I can endure it.”

                Edward looked at him. “Next Christmas,” he said, “we can go wherever you like.”

                Thomas raised an eyebrow, then set to work on Edward’s tie, undoing the knot with quick, efficient fingers. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said, “I won’t forget. We’ll go somewhere far away from here—some deserted island in the middle of the ocean. You and me, reclining by a beach somewhere…”

                “You’re hopeless,” Edward said, but he sounded very fond.

* * *

 

                “Papa seems well pleased with his poor solider,” Mary said, accepting a cup of coffee from Jimmy. “When he said he played cricket I was rather afraid he’d be adopted on the spot.”

                “I was skeptical, but Robert is so terribly fond him,” Cora said, sipping her own coffee. “Poor dear—I’ll admit to being a little fond of him myself.”

                “Yes, but the question is, will Edith like him?” Violet asked, deep in thought. Mary and Cora turned and stared.

                “Edith? Why?”

                The Dowager Countess raised an eyebrow at them, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, he’s not the most suitable prospect, but she’s not terribly long on options, is she?”

                “Granny, _really,_ ” Mary said, rolling her eyes. “Papa isn’t nearly as Machiavellian as you are.”

                Violet opened her hands, in a _what-do-you-want-from-me?_ gesture. “Why else bring a stranger here, out of the blue?”

                “Because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go,” Cora said, gently.

                “Robert’s done nothing but complain about how people treat Downton as a public house,” Violet replied. “Now you mean to tell me he’s taking in strays out of the goodness of his heart?”

                “Golly,” Mary murmured into her coffee. “You have quite a way with words.”

                “I’m not opposed, believe it or not,” Violet said. “He’s certainly more suitable than Sir Anthony when it comes to age. Perhaps a smart match can even help him work around this rumored disinheritance.”

                “Disinherited? I hadn’t heard that,” Cora said, tilting her head back. “It does seem a little harsh, but I suppose their hands are tied. Poor thing!”

                “You’re the one who made such a fuss about Edith being a nursemaid, and Sir Anthony only had a gammy arm,” Mary pointed out.

                “Our Barrow seems to have that all well in hand,” Violet said, waving a hand dismissively. “Though, I do wonder if his interest is altogether _suitable_ —“

                Violet was interrupted by the return of Isobel and the Crawley men joining the rest of the party. Isobel settled into her seat behind Violet, reclaiming the coffee she’d left behind when she went to freshen up.

                “You didn’t linger too long over your cigars,” Cora said, looking up at Robert. He gave her a smile, but there wasn’t much mirth behind it.

                “We were just discussing some business and found the conversation rather dull.”

                “Not without me, I hope you weren’t,” Mary said, with a sharp look at Matthew. He leaned over and kissed her on the head. “Nothing like that,” he assured her.

                “Well, Robert?” Violet asked. “Is this young man a possibility for Edith’s future?”

                Robert replied by turning and signaling to the footmen. “James, bring me a brandy, would you?”

                “Well? Is he?”

                “Mama, you are incorrigible,” he said, shaking his head. He took the proffered glass and drank deeply from it. “Just because _you_ are incapable of altruism doesn’t mean I am.”

                “I don’t know why you’re all acting so coy about it, it’s not an _bad_ match. The Courtenays are a very respectable old family—“

                Matthew settled in beside his mother, leaving Robert and Violet to bicker. “You said earlier that you knew Edward, didn’t you?” he asked, quietly. She turned.

                “He was my patient during the war. He’d just come in from Arras with gas blindness.”

                “What was he like then?” Isobel shrugged.

                “He didn’t talk much to me, I’m afraid. You can imagine he wasn’t at his best.”

                “I can indeed,” Matthew murmured, his own memories of his time convalescing stirring uneasily in the back of his mind. “And Barrow—you would have known Barrow then, as well?”

                “He said even less,” Isobel said. “He was rather cold, really—but then, he’d only just come back from the front himself. He hit it off right away with Lieutenant Courtenay—Edward, that is. I _am_ glad to see them still together; they made a good team.”

                “Did they?” Matthew asked. He sipped his drink. “Is that why Thomas left for Farley Hall?”

                “I couldn’t possibly say. I don’t know anything about it, really. Only that it was quite an unusual circumstance—I remember Dr. Clarkson was fuming over it, but I can’t seem to remember why.”

                “Hmm,” Matthew hummed, non-committedly. “And Edward? Do you remember if he said anything?”

                Isobel opened her mouth, and her expression shifted to one of unease. “I don’t recall,” she said, suddenly wary. “But Edward was my patient. I’m not free to talk about his medical record, in any case.”

                “The war’s over,” Matthew wheedled, but Isobel shook her head.

                “You know better than that,” she said, lightly scolding. “Besides, what does it matter?”

                “It doesn’t,” Matthew said, cagily. “Just curious. Do you think Dr. Clarkson would remember anything—about Barrow, that is?”

                “I suppose he might,” Isobel said, shrugging. “But he’ll tell you the same thing I did about Edward.”

                “Good,” Matthew said, distractedly. “Good, good.” He turned back to the conversation between Robert and Violet, which had gotten rather heated.

                “I think it’s rather bad form, pawning Edith off on a man who can’t properly inspect the goods,” Mary was saying.

                “Really Mary, its _bad form_ to talk about your sister as though she were one of your pigs,” Robert scolded.

                “If only she were,” Mary mused. “She’d be much more useful to the estate that way.”

                “And with that,” Robert announced, “I believe I’ll go to bed. Goodnight, all.”

* * *

 

                 Upstairs, Thomas had just finished banking the fire for the night. He stretched, digging his bare toes into the plush carpet of the bedroom. This part wasn’t so bad—he could get used to the upstairs accommodations at Downton.

                “When are you coming to bed?” Edward called, sleepily.

                “Now,” Thomas replied, and Edward shifted obligingly, pulling back the covers. Thomas slid into bed happily, pleased with the softness of the freshly-washed sheets, as Edward snaked an arm around his stomach and pulled him in close.

                _Maybe I was wrong_ , he thought, sleepily. This wasn’t so bad. It was cozy, in its own way.

                _Maybe we’ll survive this disaster in one piece, after all._

Later, he would mentally kick himself for his moment of unguarded naiveté.

**Author's Note:**

> For whatever reason, I compelled to make an extremely pedantic note about all the historical inaccuracies in this chapter. The Royal York College for the blind is totally made up, but the [Yorkshire School for the Blind](http://www.yorkpress.co.uk/features/features/11568488.Memories_of_Yorkshire_School_for_the_Blind) was a real place, and Queen Alexandra College exists to this day. [Blind cricket](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blind_cricket) is very much a real sport, but I've fudged the date of its invention. [The Courtenays were/are a real family](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_of_Courtenay#The_English_House_of_Courtenay), but I don't they were ever baronets and their ancestral seat is Powderham Castle, not [Chatsworth House](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chatsworth_House), which I've moved roughly were Powderham should be. I'll admit I picked Chatsworth because I found the name super delightful, but soon realized that it was actually pretty historically significant and relevant to the time this story is taking place and people would notice that I'd fudged it. I'm sorry for that and any other geographical/historical/dialect-related fuckups-- I'm from Texas lol.


End file.
